


Spleen et Idéal

by rodabonor



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, Bulimia, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Daddy Issues, Eating Disorders, Hannibal is not amused, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light Bondage, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Possessive Hannibal, Premature Ejaculation, Public Hand Jobs, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Their Victim Is Rude, Will is getting the hang of this murder thing, kind of, murder husbands murdering, non-graphic mention of rape, so many of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9218024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodabonor/pseuds/rodabonor
Summary: ”I waited so long for you to come around, you know.” Hannibal says one night when they're having dinner together. ”Patiently awaiting your becoming.””It feels like home.” Will says in reply, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ”Like I've been wandering aimlessly these past few years, feeling my way through the dark. Maybe even my whole life.”As Will and Hannibal are through recovering from the wounds they acquired killing The Dragon, they are ready to move on and build a new life together. Taking on false identities, they move to the south of France to fulfill the wordless vow they made to each other the night they killed Dolarhyde.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance in case the French lines I squeezed in there are grammatically incorrect or just strangely phrased in any way, lol. Hopefully I get my point across, translation can be found in the notes at the end. 
> 
> Edit: I was corrected by the very helpful [RainbowClaw](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowClaw/pseuds/RainbowClaw), so the phrasing should be more accurate now!

Although he prefers not thinking about it too hard, Will wonders why he did it sometimes – why he attempted double suicide that night with Hannibal. He used to think that he did it because he was horrified at what he had done. What _they_ had done. He still remembers, in vivid detail, the disturbing image of Dolarhyde's dead body spread out on the ground in front of them, savagely torn and drenched in dark spurts of blood. Chunks of flesh ripped out of his throat, blood dripping off of Hannibal's chin. He remembers pain. He can't recall it, but he knows it was there. He remembers frenzy. Ecstasy. _That_ he can very well recall.

”This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us.”

Hannibal's voice, soft and hoarse. The steady beat of his heart as Will rested his head against his chest, feeling the other man's arms wrap around him.

”It's beautiful.”

He'd meant it. Really, he didn't find any of it disturbing at all. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and the most beautiful he had ever felt. It was then that he made up his mind; the world would not suffer his reckoning, he would not suffer the realization of his true nature. 

He closed his eyes, grip tightening around the firm muscles of Hannibal's arms. Then he let his body go limp, simply falling, and falling -

 

*

 

If there's anything Will has learned through experience, it's that the will to live is a powerful thing. And taking a few steps down his new path, he falls in love with the person he's become. Once he and Hannibal recover from their various cuts and bruises, some worse than others, they take on false identities and move to the south of France. Staying in a small country house just outside of central Avignon, they start building the foundation of a shared life, slowly figuring out how to live together.

”I waited so long for you to come around, you know.” Hannibal says one night when they're having dinner together. ”Patiently awaiting your becoming.”

”It feels like home.” Will says in reply, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. ”Like I've been wandering aimlessly these past few years, feeling my way through the dark. Maybe even my whole life.”

”Yes.” The older man agrees, a hint of possessiveness – or even _jealousy_ – suddenly twisting his even facial features. ”My little Odysseus. Led astray through various adventures, tempted by the treacherous siren calls of normalcy. Ensnared by your Calypso, keeping you on a tight leash in the FBI.” 

Will smiles at Hannibal taking a figurative stab at Jack Crawford; the man who continually urged him to continue his work within the police.

”I kept you were it mattered. And I made a home out of you. My Penelope.”

 

*

 

”Please,” The man gazes up at the both of them, a pleading look in his eyes. ”I don't- don't have much money or nothing but I'll-”

”Cattle don't talk.” Hannibal interrupts, tightening the knot on his quivering wrists. ”Isn't that right, Will?” 

”I didn't hear anything.” Will turns to face their instrument tray, deliberating where to start. His face is reflected in the shiny stainless steel of their equipment, broken up into bits and pieces. The gash on his cheek is mostly healed, yet fresh; the jagged edges of it blushing a pretty shade of pink. ”Is it ready?” 

”Yes.” Hannibal confirms over the sound of desperate, trembling sobs, putting on a thin set of rubber gloves. ”Picture-perfect.”

 

*

 

”Why did you take his spleen?” Hannibal inquires once they've cleaned themselves up and properly contained their harvest. They're in the spacious laundry room of their home, and Will is busy rubbing stain remover on the sleeves of his flannel; sullied by blood despite the plastic overall he wore during the procedure. ”I don't suppose you have taken an interest in its culinary potential.” 

Will narrows his eyes, pondering Hannibal's question as he puts his shirt in the washing machine.

”The purpose of the spleen is keeping bodily fluids balanced.” He says, musing. ”It regulates blood storage in your body, and detects potentially dangerous microorganisms that may be infecting your blood. Essentially, it's sort of a filter, stopping infections from spreading.”

Hannibal makes a humming sound of affirmation.

”Consuming an organ symbolizing balance and harmony might be viewed as a way to absorb its qualities.” The older man says. ”Is that what you are alluding to?” 

”In a way.” Will adjusts the settings on the washing machine before putting it on and elaborating on his response. ”In medieval times, the spleen was also thought to be an organ that produced and stored black bile. Which is the humor closest associated with melancholy.”

Hannibal frowns momentarily. Detecting slight concern in the other man's face, Will offers a soothing smile before continuing his reasoning.

”Consumption is not necessarily absorption, Hannibal. Consumption might also be destruction.”

 

*

 

Later that night, as they're lying in bed, Hannibal turns to pull Will's half-sleeping form into his arms. Cradling the younger man's head to his chest, he starts stroking the soft, downy hair on the back of his neck. A low rumble of satisfaction builds in Will's throat, his eyes still closed.

”I'm pleased to know that you are starting to see yourself for what you really are.” Hannibal says in a hushed tone, tenderness slowly seeping into his voice. ”The beauty I always saw in you might finally reveal itself to you as well.”

Will chuckles, opening his eyes to regard the peculiar beauty of the other man, the arch of his brows, the straight line of his nose, the soft fullness of his lips. Even in the darkness of their bedroom, he can make out the outlines of Hannibal's face; his mind knows it well enough to fill in the blanks.

”Don't get sentimental about it.” He says, lips stretched into a cheeky grin. 

Hannibal allows himself the privilege of lightly tracing the irregular line of Will's healing wound with his finger, careful not to arouse any discomfort. The younger man's cheeks are shaved clean these days, to clear the area around his gash. Hannibal has found that he rather likes it, seeing his lover's even facial features unobstructed, only slightly obscured by the unruly mop of curly hair. Will's face resonates the youthful beauty of Ganymede, the tortured allure of Saint Sebastian, the sultry, yet refined depravity of Dorian Gray. Hannibal sighs deeply, content.

”Plato claimed humans were four-legged monstrosities long ago. Two creatures merged into one, wreaking havoc on the earth, challenging the Gods. Eventually, Zeus split them for having become too powerful. Man was condemned to walk the earth alone, searching desperately for his other half.” He rests his cheek against the top of Will's head, reveling in the warmth of his body. ”I would say I've found mine.” 

”Mmh,” Will hums, nestling into Hannibal's embrace. ”Gods and men have a reason to fear us.”

 

*

 

Somewhere down the road, the two of them decide to pursue a local serial rapist. Will took an interest in the man after watching several news reports dedicated to his crimes. He was released from custody due to insufficient evidence, but he allegedly had such violent methods of subduing his victims that few of them made it out alive – four women had already lost their lives due to internal hemorrhage. Hannibal was consistently less engrossed in the case, thinking the suspect was a far cry from a compelling psychological profile.

”A commonplace rapist doing commonplace work.” He'd said the first time Will brought him up, lips twisted in a slight scowl. ”I would consider your talents to be better used elsewhere.”

Yet, Will could see something compelling in his crimes. They weren't inspired by revenge, rejection, loneliness or a need of control – in fact, none of the usual criteria fit. There was a savage ruthlessness to it, to be sure, but it wasn't sadistically motivated either. The suffering he caused his victims hardly even seemed intentional. Will imagined this man to be in touch with an archaic sort of natural order; a hierarchy wherein the strong dominate the weak, wherein a man simply takes what he isn't offered without regard of moral complications. It was egotistical and self-absorbed on a level he had scarcely seen before, and there was no strategy, no conscious thought, no consideration for their feelings in the slightest. He was only concerned with getting what he perceived to be his basic, biological need satisfied – nothing more, nothing less.

When he tells Hannibal this theory, the older man considers it for a moment before folding his arms across his chest, sighing deeply in defeat.

”Will it please you if I agree to pursuit this mediocre nuisance of a man?”

”Yes.”  


The older man shakes his head softly, as if chastising himself.

”My devotion to you is sure to be the death of me.” 

 

*

 

Hannibal refuses, however, to let the man into their home – effectively ruling out the kill room in their basement of their country house. They decide to settle for renting a large storage locker, and after observing the man's regular habits for some time, they devise a simple yet efficient plan.

The night they decide to set their scheme in motion, Will is excited to the point where he's feeling nervous. It's the first time they attempt such an ambitious undertaking. While they're waiting for the man to step out of the bar he's visiting regularly, Hannibal hands Will a frayed, uncharacteristically filthy rag and a small, unlabeled bottle. 

”You walk up behind him as he's passing through that alley way. Then you take him out, quickly, and I'll assist in getting him to the car discreetly, without raising unnecessary suspicion.” He smiles fondly. ”I have full confidence in you.”

 

*

 

As things run along smoothly without any major hitches, they drive out to their temporary location to set up a kill room while waiting for the man to regain consciousness. The room isn't nearly as sophisticated as the one in their home, but Will finds it to be quite fitting. Savage, unrefined, much like their guest. Finished covering the room in sheets of plastic and zipped up their plastic suits, they drag the limp man out of the backseat of their car and prep him for the night. Hannibal deems it appropriate to have him stripped naked on the ground, chained by the neck to a protruding iron spike in the floor. Further restrained by handcuffs, feet tied up and muzzled, he seems very much like a rabid dog in dormancy.

”Look good to you?” Will asks as they take a step back to admire their work. The man is laying on the floor, knocked out, the impressive bulge of his muscles stretching his skin taut. Indeed an alpha male in physical ability, the empath thinks to himself. 

”No matter.” Hannibal says, curtly. ”What do you think, Will?”

”I think it's sweet that you would do this for me,” Will says then, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. ”I'll find a way to repay you, I'm sure.” 

Suddenly the silence in the room is disturbed by a faint groan as the man on the floor starts regaining consciousness. He looks around the room, confused, before rage and horror strikes his features. He utters a few exclamations of shock, anger and fright in French, arms and legs testing the tight restraints; chain around his neck rattling loudly. Hannibal steps forward, tilting his chin up and steeling his eyes in a subtle display of dominance.

” _Ça suffit._ ” He says firmly. ”There is no use in struggling, you will not be able to free yourself of your restraints.” He looks the man square in the eye. ”And you will not speak unless spoken to, if you know what's good for you. _Je ne tolérerai aucun de désobéissance. Comprends?_ ”

Will steps forward then, standing next to Hannibal to get a better view of the scenery. It is then, when their guest turns to look at him, that he feels a slight shift in the room. The man's eyes are scrutinizing, searching, alternating between Will and Hannibal, then practically burning with rage and disgust. Will is utterly enraptured by the way he immediately picked up on their dynamic, as if the nature of their relationship was written on their skin. Or was it somehow just inane prejudices making him come to a quick assumption? Either way, Will is impressed with the conclusion and charmed by the way the man's face turns red with rage as he snarls in broken English:

”I will not take orders from some- some fucking _enculeur_ and his sissy little _lopaille._ ” His eyes are almost black, greasy hair falling over them, forming elongated shadows on his face. ”Disgusting fucking- _freaks_ of nature. _Vous n'êtes pas de vrais hommes._ ” 

At this, Hannibal's face is as if struck by an eclipse, white-hot rage blazing underneath his unmoving facial features. Without so much as a word, he steps forward and kicks the man straight in the jaw, hard enough to elicit a sickening _crack_. The man's neck snaps to the side and blood stains the floor where he's spitting and gurgling, chock and pain written across his features. Hannibal grabs him by the scruff of his neck, pulling his head back with barely contained rage etched across his stern face.

”I told you, I will not tolerate even the slightest disobedience.” The man glares hatefully up at the ceiling, unable to move in Hannibal's paralyzing grip. ”Now, you behave, or you'll learn to regret that crude tongue of yours.”

Will is utterly fascinated by the scene, his heart thumping with giddy anticipation. Hannibal is something entirely _other_ than what he's used to seeing, a growling beast of a man; it makes his insides tingle with excitement and he can feel an erratic laugh bubbling uncontrollably out of his throat. Hannibal turns to look at him, the anger on his face temporarily replaced by bewilderment.

”Fuck, Hannibal.” Will is still laughing, a teetering, breathless thing. ”Easy now.”

Hannibal's grip on the man loosens and he backs down, anger slowly slipping off of him like water off a duck's back. His face soon regains its regular look of indifference, though waves of savage rage is still roiling beneath that practiced mask of detachment.

”Such uncouth language.” He mutters darkly, letting the man crash to the floor with a harsh thump. ”I have had it with this creature. Let's get to work.”

 

*

 

When they killed Dolarhyde, the beauty of their crime was not external; its explosive appeal primarily resided within the two of them, in the frenzy of their emotions, in their shared moment of bliss. Since then, they have been aspiring to depict that euphoric sense of wonder in aesthetic, using the dynamic combination of Hannibal's refinement and Will's freshly discovered blood lust, budding and blossoming like flowers in the spring. Hannibal has always meticulously planned his kills, mapping out how to turn them into art; making sketches, drawing inspiration from the divinity of musical experience. But now, after killing alongside Will, he has found that their work is at its best when he allows the younger man freedom of expression. It is up to Hannibal to finalize, to _elevate._

”This man has no interest whatsoever in artistry or theatrics. In fact, he is completely lacking vision.” Will explains as he picks up a sharp, medium-sized knife, approaching the growling man struggling against his restraints on the floor. ”He scarcely has a motive, practically having adapted the mindset of an uncivilized beast. He recognizes no moral values tied to his crimes. To him, it's all just basic urges, needing fulfillment.”

Will grabs the tousled hair of the man with one hand, quickly pulling his head back. He gazes into his dark, wide open eyes, just for a moment, searching for something he can't really articulate. When he doesn't find it, he simply cuts his throat with one quick slash. The man starts gurgling and convulsing, blood pouring out of his mouth and neck.

”Taking what I just said into consideration, he is far from evil.” Will takes the knife and inserts it into the open wound, pushing it upward as the man trembles faintly, the white of his eyes almost seeming to expand. ”And so, what we're doing will not be guided by ethic principles. We take his life with the same cold detachment, no passion, no fervor, no resentment. No nothing.”

Will moves on to make incisions in the man's heels, plastic suit stained by the blood sputtering out of the almost-corpse's mouth. He turns to face Hannibal.

”Will you get the meat gambrel while I cut him out of his restraints? We won't be needing them anymore.”

 

*

 

When Hannibal is through attaching the meat gambrel to a chain connected to the ceiling, Will slides the hooks of it through the man's pierced heels. Then, they raise him up together, muscles straining with the effort, hanging him like a slaughtered animal.

”What do you see?” Will asks Hannibal as they're watching the man's blood drain out of his body, dripping on to the plastic wrapping of the floor.

”I see a pig being treated as such.” The older man replies. ”And it pleases me.”

”What about potential?”

”There is always potential.”

 

*

 

”Being raped is essentially being powerless,” The older man says as he's disemboweling the man, still hanging upside down, drained of blood. ”Forced to submit to someone having a fixed sense of your purpose. It's having someone using your body as a vessel, carving a place for themselves within you. Figuratively and literally.”

Will considers this as he sees Hannibal gradually emptying the man, leaving only a pale shell of his body; skin and bones, fat and muscle, nothing more. 

”So we will make a vessel out of him; carving out a place for ourselves.” The younger man says, realizing Hannibal's vision.

 

*

The man is leaning into a soft pose, almost like that of a dancer, his rippling muscles fixed and tense, facial expression soft, eyes closed. His skin is white as marble, reminiscent of beautiful, ancient Greek statues. There is no humiliation to be found in his presentation, only humility. He is empty, merely a shell of a man, the gash on his stomach revealing a torso emptied of organs, bowels; all that remains is the pink of his flesh. A hollow body for a hollow mind. Yet, Will thinks to himself, more substantial than anything he could have ever hoped to be.

As they open the door, finally stepping out to get some fresh air, they see the sun rising above the horizon. The pale, yellow light is falling upon their statue, illuminating the fishing line holding him upright as well as the empty vessels underneath his skin, blue contrasting with white, a web of intricate patterns devoid of purpose. Will gazes in awe, silent next to Hannibal.

”We purged him of his base, vulgar needs, befittingly killing him like an animal.” Hannibal says in reverence. ”Then we allowed him the mercy of becoming something beautiful in our hands.” 

Will takes Hannibal's hand in his, gently stroking his thumb across the tough skin of his knuckles, unable to tear his gaze away from their most ambitious work as of yet. When Hannibal squeezes his hand with silent affection, he feels his eyes burn with unshed tears.

 

*

 

Once they have finished cleaning up and taken all the necessary precautions, they finally return home. As they close the front door behind them, Will rips into Hannibal like a man starved; clawing at his back through his immaculate shirt, kissing him hard enough that their teeth knock together, tongues slipping over one another at a feverish rate.

”Hannibal.” Will breathes, voice lowered to a rough whisper as the older man backs him up against one of the walls in their hallway, tasting his mouth with a fervent urgency. His breath is almost knocked out his lungs as Hannibal slams him against the solid surface of the wall, and he releases a shaky whimper when the older man runs his hands down his sides, manhandling his waist and squeezing the supple flesh of his rear. Something akin to a low growl escapes Hannibal's lips as he practically rips Will's shirt off of him, yanking it from his body hard enough that Will staggers. When the milky skin of his torso is exposed, the older man dips down to kiss his neck, moving to taste the uneven skin of his right shoulder; multiple stab wounds and gun shots making it a messy patchwork of scar tissue.  


"Come on, please, Hannibal.” The younger man pleads, choosing to ignore the way his wavering voice makes him come off as a needy and just a little bit pathetic. He figures Hannibal likes him that way anyhow, as his plea makes the older man’s eye gleam with something decidedly carnal. ”I want you.”

”Tell me what it is you want from me.”

”Anything.”

At this, Hannibal starts tugging at Will's pants, sliding them down his hips with practiced ease. Then he starts palming at Will's hard member through the thin fabric of his underwear, secretly pleased to find that they are stained by pre-ejaculatory fluid. The younger man moans, throwing his head back in pleasure, his parted, beautifully reddened lips presented to Hannibal like an offering. The older man dips down to claim his gift, relishing in the way Will's mouth falls open without resistance, granting him full access to the wet heat inside. Will grinds desperately against Hannibal's hand, feeling pleasure coil in his gut as the older man devours his mouth, tongue sliding along his bottom lip. The older man's hand comes to rest at the scar stretching across Will's stomach like a broken smile, a favored place Hannibal will often seek out when they're intimate, and as he runs his thumb across the jagged edges Will lets out a shaky breath. Then, to his horror, he can feel himself unravel. With a startled gasp and a violent shudder, he comes; sticky spurts of semen dribbling down his shaft and sticking to the damp fabric of his boxers.  


"I'm- sorry,” Will croaks, averting his gaze as he's through riding out the waves of his orgasm. His face is hot with embarrassment, the blush creeping on to his skin making him feel even more awkward. Hannibal cradles his face in his hands, however, and smiles fondly, almost reassuring.

”Never apologize for enjoying yourself.” The older man says in a rough voice. Then he slides Will's underwear down and gathers the gracious amount of semen in his hand, spreading it across his fingers. Taking advantage of the younger man's dazed state of disorientation, he steps one foot in between Will's legs, swiftly kicking them apart while reaching around his waist to gain access to his opening. He spreads the soft mounds of flesh with one hand and rubs soothing circles across the tense furl with his slick fingers until Will is relaxed enough for him to push inside. The younger man gasps softly at the intrusion. He is still weak and sensitive from his orgasm, knees almost quivering with the effort to keep him upright. Still he feels a twinge of excitement, and pleasure soon starts building in his gut as Hannibal's skilled fingers stretch him open.

”I need to know,” Hannibal murmurs, right next to his ear. ”If you can take me right now. Because if I spin you around and push inside you, I should not like to stop. Can you handle it?”

Will shudders, slowly nodding his head. This small sign of approval is all it takes, and Hannibal spins him around, pinning him to the wall with a rough animosity Will is equally aroused by and fearful of. Will groans as the side of his face connects with the wall and his breath hitches in anticipation. He can tell that Hannibal is unbuttoning his pants, pulling them down his hips along with his underwear. 

”So good,” Hannibal praises as he licks the palm of his hand and wraps it around his hard member, giving it a few strokes to make it slick with saliva. ”So good for me.”

Hannibal positions himself and slowly starts pushing inside the tight heat of Will's flesh. The younger man whimpers, his tense muscles resisting intrusion at first. But then it's like Hannibal hits a switch, and he is able to sink inside him in one, slow thrust of his hips. Will whines, pain twisting his even features, and Hannibal makes a soothing hushing sound as he starts moving inside him, slowly and steadily. Will's contorted face is soon smoothed out as the burning sensation is replaced by a warm, pleasurable sense of being filled. He feels himself grow hard again, rubbing against the wall, rocked into motion by Hannibal's thrusting. 

”More, please.” Will pleads, shying away from words like _harder_ or _faster_ , afraid of what they might rattle in Hannibal. He always senses that the older man is holding back, no matter how ruthlessly he picks Will apart. Something else is quivering just underneath the surface, that _otherness_ lurking beneath his practiced mask of restraint always threatening to take the reins. Spurred on by Will's plea, Hannibal picks up the pace and fucks him roughly until Will is a writhing mess, moaning and whimpering as if in pain. Hannibal wraps his arms around the younger man's thin waist and holds him tightly, thrusting deep into him as he snakes a hand down to his hard length, covered in dried remnants of semen. 

”I'm going to make you come again.” He rasps, his voice a rough whisper next to Will's ear, and the younger man nods eagerly. Hannibal kisses Will’s neck, already covered in old, fading bruises and fresh, rosy marks, sucking the soft skin into his mouth and worrying the supple flesh between his teeth. He starts stroking Will, slowly at first, then in time with his thrusting. As he does, Will arches his back, mouth popping open and eyes closing in an act of complete surrender, body and face appearing somehow _open_. This devastating display of vulnerability sends Hannibal over the edge, and he slams his hips into Will, groaning next to his ear as he comes inside him. In the blissful haze of his orgasm, he can feel Will tense up, and warm spurts of come trickles down his hand as the younger man rocks into his fist. Hannibal sighs content and rests his forehead against the nape of Will's neck, trying to catch his breath. This is the place where Will's scent is always the strongest, almost overwhelming in its intensity. Hannibal takes a deep breath, savoring the scent of Will as if it were the fragrant petals of a flower or the fresh air of a crisp autumn morning.


	2. De Profundis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _”I still dream about eating you.” He says, stroking the hair out of Will's eyes to reveal a thin scar on the white skin of his forehead. ”When I cut your head open that night, years ago, you were so pliant to my touch. You bled beautifully.”_
> 
> _”You want to eat me because you love me. You loved her.”_  
>  Their most recent kill brings old memories of a previous life to the surface of Hannibal's mind, stirring all sorts of unexpected feelings. Will tries to help, despite struggling with issues of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter happened apparently, because I wanted to poke around in Hannibal's past and also write more murder husband bonding. Let the angst commence.

During the course of his adult life, Hannibal has never had much trouble sleeping. 

Despite the darkness lurking in the dim corners of his head, and despite how vivid those familiar images drenched in crimson are in his mind's eye, his sleep has remained undisturbed; the shards of broken childhood never making their way into his dreams. Even as his memories seem to age like fine wine, its sharp colors and shrill sounds only becoming more tangible the older he gets, Hannibal merely enters landscape of vast emptiness as he closes his eyes at night – his mind submerged in nothing but velvety darkness.

These things considered, he is disturbed to find that he has not been sleeping well lately.

It has been a few days since they rid Avignon of the serial rapist plaguing the city, and Hannibal finds himself lying awake long into the night, twisting and turning, thoughts lingering on _that man_. That man and that raw, animalistic energy, rolling off of him in waves of untamed savagery. Nostrils flaring, teeth bared. A beast to rouse Hannibal's inner beast. Hannibal does not lose control. And he didn't, but he _wanted_ to. Hannibal is not a sadist. More often than not, he wants to alter. Elevate. But that man, he wanted to _hurt_ , if only to placate the monstrosity within.

Will, of course, takes note of the rare disturbances to their normally peaceful nights. Every time Hannibal wakes up from his fitful sleep, breathing hard with his shirt stuck to his clammy back, the other man is already awake – studying him quietly with round, black eyes, almost all pupil in the darkness of their bedroom.

”What's wrong?” His will ask each time, concern bleeding into his voice; no more than a raspy whisper. And each time, Hannibal will align his facial features into his practiced mask of detachment as he assures him:

”Nothing.”

And each time, Will regards him with something akin to disappointment in the deep, dark wells of his eyes as he turns away, nestling into his side of the bed to go back to sleep. Refraining from pushing Hannibal further on the subject, as unconvinced as he obviously is. The older man briefly wonders why that is.

 

*

 

Contrary to what one might think, Will knows exactly why he enjoys killing with Hannibal. Aside from the dynamic sense of being powerful and in control, tingling underneath his skin like a quiet thrum of electricity, Will has found that what he enjoys most is being a unified _us_ against a clearly defined _them_. There are other factors to complicate the matter, of course, but above all else, Will yearns for that _blurring_ sensation associated with their hunts. He longs for the way the contours of their separate existence seem to resolve, mingling together until they are united as one single force. As Will decided to forgive Hannibal – for what is forgiveness if not a decision? – he looked for a way they could be together. A way to overcome the memories of pain and suffering that washed over him at the mere thought of Hannibal. And killing was it. He knew it was, even without the other man telling him so.

Years ago, he told Hannibal that killing didn't make his heart rate speed up. It had been a lie then, and it would be a lie now. Back when he'd said it, the older man had concluded that one's heart rate while committing an act of brutality was indicative of the violence one was capable of. Will disagrees as his violence is measured by different standards, most of which relate to Hannibal.

(But Will has always been a killer, having slipped in and out of the unsavory minds of killers a large chunk of his life, even before he knew he was doing it. And before there were hardened criminals, there were fathers of classmates with that dangerous glint in their eyes, that predatory wrongness Will somehow knew to be wary of even at such a young age. Will owns every single act of brutality that crossed his path as if they were his own, to the extent where he used to feel the heavy weight of the guilt the perpetrators were supposed to feel – settled on his narrow shoulders like scavenging birds of prey, awaiting the pungent odor of rotting flesh. Now, this old violence mostly stirs a sense of triumph in him.

Mostly.)

Will assumed their last kill had inspired the same blurring sensation in Hannibal, the same sense of melding together, becoming one flesh; a two people hive mind. But now, he detects a sudden hard edge that wasn't there before, a wall shutting him out. As Hannibal sleeps, his face softens into something Will is shocked to realize that he doesn't recognize; as if his face is rearranged, features picked up and then put back in the wrong place. Will wants to tear down that wall kicking and screaming, wants to _claw_ that look of raw vulnerability off of his features because it was not supposed to be like this, it wasn't supposed to be just him.

 

*

 

A solid two weeks after their kill, Hannibal wakes up in the middle of the night with a start and a name on his lips. Even awake, he can see before his mind's eye a glimpse of savagery; uneven rows of sharp teeth, countless eyes with blown pupils. His ears are still ringing with a cacophony of panicked sobs and urgent shouts, voices without faces drowning out the sound of his own rapidly beating heart. He sees himself in these images, a sickly, thin little boy crying and screaming desperately, and knows that it isn't a memory. Just his nightmare-fueled imagination, a recurring dream haunting him since he was a child. He wonders sometimes how much his mind has warped the memory of the incident, if it was anything like what he's been seeing in his dreams. As he sits up in bed, shedding the horror of his nightmare like a skin, Will sits up to wrap his arms around him. Hannibal leans into the touch, resting his head against Will's warm chest as the younger man starts combing his hair with his fingers, undeterred by the fact that it's damp with sweat.

”Why aren't you talking to me?” Will mumbles quietly, voice hoarse with sleep. ”Talk to me, Hannibal.”

It's all in the way Will looks at him; as if he was something eternal, worthy of awe – like he held ancient secrets of the world perched underneath his tongue. The wet glint to the black hollows of his eyes reminds Hannibal of nocturnal animals and the tremor to his hands as he clings to him is dreadfully familiar. _I'm sorry_ , he almost says, but then he realizes that the pleading face looking up at him is different from the one in which he seeks forgiveness.

 

*

 

”I did not bury it unresolved,” Hannibal affirms in a level voice as they sit next to each other in bed. ”I have had extensive therapy, even aside from my own unconventional therapeutic experiences relating to that incident.”

”So what is it?” Will says, cocking his head to the side, narrowing his eyes, seeming to understand the answer to his own question as soon as he's asked. ”Something about our latest project.”

Hannibal says nothing, allowing the silence stretching between them to speak for itself. Then he lies down to rest his head against the soft, silky pillows in their bed, sighing. Soon, he will be 50; then, the death of his sister will have been 42 years ago. Will is just turning 31. When Mischa passed and the chrysalis of Hannibal's becoming was conceived, Will hadn't even been born. It instills in him a sense of something he cannot immediately place, but it's reminiscent of home sickness. 

”Do you regret it?” Will's voice is small and filled with guilt, or maybe remorse, as he lies down next to him – eyes downcast. Hannibal pulls the younger man closer, fitting his body against his own. He seems, indeed, very young as he cradles his hands to his chest, dark eye-lashes fanning against the plump flesh of his cheeks. Mischa's cherub face, partially covered by tangled, messy hair, comes to mind. He almost winces.

”No, I don't regret it.” He assures him, gently running a hand through his tangled curls. ”I think it was a very positive experience for you. For us, too.”

It isn't a lie, but Will looks at him as if he doesn't believe him. Still, he nestles closer, draping a warm arm across Hannibal's stomach.

”Good.” The younger man concludes with emphasis, closing his eyes. ”I think so too.”

Hannibal presses a light kiss to Will's forehead, savoring the scent of his skin. Underneath the musk of his aftershave, he smells of a fresh headiness, almost like raw dough. When he is agitated or aroused – or both, as circumstances often would have it these days – his scent ripens into a thick, cloying sweetness, so heavy he can almost taste it; like cough medicine at the back of his throat. Hannibal sighs softly, absent-mindedly detangling the messy curls with his fingers. Normally, he doesn't dwell on such thoughts, but tonight he can't help but torture himself with the fear of losing Will. Far as they have come, Hannibal still worries about that slight apprehension in Will's frame of mind, that doubt he has always been able to sense in him. And he is a staggering twenty years younger than him, susceptible to the fickle nature of youth. Hannibal's heart twists at the notion of Will straying too far from his reach.

”I still dream about eating you.” He says, stroking the hair out of Will's eyes to reveal a thin scar on the white skin of his forehead. It brings him comfort to see it's still there, a pale, straight line reminding him of past events. ”When I cut your head open that night, years ago, you were so pliant to my touch. You bled beautifully.”

He traces the outline of where he cut him with a bonesaw, remembering the way his blood sprayed rather than poured from his wound; because of course it did. Will leans into his touch, a rumble of satisfaction building in his chest.

”You want to eat me because you love me.” He mumbles sleepily, words almost unintelligible. ”You loved her.”

The steady rise and fall of Will's chest tells him that the younger man has already gone back to sleep, his jaw slack and one of his legs twitching slightly underneath the covers. His arm is still heavy on top of Hannibal's stomach, the soft mop of curly hair tickling his chest. Hannibal closes his eyes, releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding. _M is for Mischa_ , he used to say to his sister, drawing the first letter of her name anywhere he could, with any means available: his little fingers tracing slanted lines in moist sand or fogged-up glass. The irony of Will's name has not escaped him, the first letter of his name an upside down M. _W is for Will_.

If Will was not such a light sleeper, startled awake by the faintest sound or movement, Hannibal would trace the first letter of her name – _their name_ – above the fluttering pulse of his neck with the tip of his finger. An invisible mark only for him to see, a secret whispered into his skin.

 

*

Hannibal is, above all else, a shameless glutton: a trait that has grown to encompass all areas of his existence. During the entire span of his adult life, he has been plagued by a ravenous appetite – one he fortunately always has had the means of satisfying. He is used to _wanting_ and _taking_ and most importantly, _having_. Which is why Will frustrates him so. He wanted him, he took him, but he is woefully aware of the fact that he is not likely to ever completely _have_ him. Part of him even likes that. He likes the way his attempts to mold Will are met by stubborn resistance. No matter how broken Will is and how deep Hannibal dents his fragile mind and body, he still fights him half the way. It is always interesting, always stimulating, always completely unpredictable. Still, it is supremely frustrating, and he feels like a stranger to himself as new feelings inhabit his body. Feelings he might identify as jealousy, or rather, possessiveness. Sudden outbursts of anger threatening to disturb the still surface of his disposition, feelings of frustration; festering in his blood like a disease. Uncertainty, because he is suddenly in the precarious position where he might be denied something he spent years taking and even longer wanting.

 

*

 

After a considerable amount of coaxing, Hannibal has successfully convinced Will to accompany him to the Opéra d'Avignon to see a rendition of Salome. The night they attend a performance, Will is unusually dolled up in a pigeon grey three-piece suit, his hair freshly cut and his shaved face carefully made up to hide the rather jarring scar adorning his cheek. Hannibal smiles at the way the waistcoat underneath Will's jacket nips at his waist, accentuating his slender form. The thin material of his slacks make his legs look long and slim, every movement reminding Hannibal of the beautiful way they part for him when they are alone. A small part of Hannibal is rather proud to be seen in the company of an attractive young man – he enjoys surrounding himself with beautiful things in every possible way, after all. However, he must admit that Will lacks the relaxed air of a socialite, which is particularly striking once they arrive. Hannibal suspects that Will might never shake some of the more downtrodden paths of his behavioral pattern, such as his slumped posture, shoulders hunched as if he is trying to retract within himself. His inability to make eye-contact, the distinct uncertainty to his movements. As if he's expecting someone to run him off the property any second.

”Relax, Will.” Hannibal says as they have a drink in the lounge, giving his shoulder an assuring squeeze. Will merely glares at him in response, but there is a good-natured humor there.

It's as if others can sense Will's insecurity, Hannibal comes to discover, either actively avoiding him or approaching him with less than honorable intentions. When Hannibal lets him out of his sight, Will is immediately approached by a young woman with sparkling eyes and pearly teeth bared in a bold smile. As she engages him in conversation, Will smiles politely, fidgeting with his hands. Hannibal mentally flips through his box of recipes, resisting the urge to ball up his fists. Despite his discontent, he is curious how Will will handle the situation, and decides not to intervene until he's made an assessment.

Suddenly the young woman leans a bit too far into Will's personal space, making him flinch and momentarily shrink. But then he does that _thing_ he always does. Despite his discomfort, he gives in to her persistence, allowing her to set the boundaries for their interaction. Hannibal purses his lips. Thankfully Will's conversation with the young woman is cut short, as Will's eyes start darting around the room and he catches a glimpse of Hannibal. Will tenses up, and then he seems to excuse himself, smiling stiffly as he makes his way toward Hannibal. The older man takes a sip of his wine to hide the smirk spreading across his face, pleased that Will immediately sensed that he'd erred. One of the most delicious things about him is that Hannibal doesn't have to actively mold him; more often than not, Will fits himself into Hannibal's mold. 

Still, a gentle nudge in the right direction does not hurt.

 

*

 

(During the performance, Hannibal puts his hand on Will's thigh, squeezing the delicate flesh with as much discretion as circumstances allow, allowing his hand to travel further until he reaches the hardening bulge on the front of Will's pants. He applies firm pressure to his touch, rubbing smooth circles across his stiffness until the younger man is practically rocking against him, driving him almost over the edge – only to stop dead in his tracks, hand coming to rest just below his twitching hardness, protected by thinly woven fabric that quickly dampens with arousal. He repeats this little procedure a few times, mostly to remind Will of who he belongs to, and that control over a situation is a luxury Hannibal affords him. He pointedly keeps his gaze locked onto the performers on stage, but when he steals a quick glance to his right, Will's chest is heaving and his eyes are glazed over in arousal, shining in the murky darkness of the salon.)

 

*

 

”Did you enjoy yourself?” 

Hannibal only just manages to keep the smugness out of his voice as he turns to Will, eyebrows slightly raised in a display of genuine interest. They are back home again, within the safe confines of their bedroom, and Will is just taking off his jacket. He is still a little flushed, eyes gleaming and the pale skin of his neck blushing a subtle shade of pink. As the younger man rids himself of his jacket, Hannibal is pleased to discover that there is a spot of darker grey where his hand lingered.

”Yes, it was definitely intense.” Will says flatly, glaring at Hannibal from across the room as he unbuttons his waistcoat. Hannibal smiles, approaching him with slow, deliberate steps.

”It was, indeed. Salome is a beautifully morbid tale of a woman's struggle with hopelessly unrequited love, united with her beloved beyond the restrictions of life. His life, anyway.” He gives Will a fond look while wrapping his arms around his slight frame, relishing in the way Will's still half-hard length presses into his thigh. ”I always did enjoy the image of Salome holding Jochanaan's severed head in her hands, kissing his bloodied lips with fevered passion.”

Will scoffs, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as his arms wrap around Hannibal's neck, hands coming to rest near the short hair on his nape.

”Of course _you_ would enjoy that imagery.” He says pointedly, lowering his gaze to look at Hannibal's mouth. ”What was she singing during that part?” 

The older man allows himself the privilege of caressing the delicate skin of Will's neck, feeling the elevated pulse beat against his fingers like the thrum of a hummingbird's wings. 

”She found his lips to be bitter, like love.” 

A breathy laugh that isn't quite a laugh tears away from Will's throat.

”Bitter, like love.” Will repeats, cocking his head. ”And your little distractions tonight, were they perhaps provoked by the fact that I attracted someone's attention?” He licks his lips. ”I was never really sure until now whether you were the jealous type or not, you know.”

There is a slight pause. As Will looks up to meet his gaze, Hannibal's eyes are dark and still, like the murky, undisturbed water of a lake.

”Would you have excused yourself even if I wasn't there as a reminder of the repercussions, lest you didn't?” The older man counters, answering Will's question with another question. His voice is even, as per usual, betraying no emotion.

”There are repercussions?” Will deflects, attempting to curve his lips into a playful smile, but he is rather certain it mostly comes off as a grimace. ”What exactly might those be?”

Will lines his voice with a teasing lilt, as if they were role playing and everything was just a game, but if he is to be quite honest with himself, he doesn't know how to answer Hannibal's question. He isn't used to being in places where people might flirt with him, and he isn't used to being a man someone might want to flirt with. He doesn't know what would have happened if Hannibal wasn't there, because it was an unfamiliar situation and he isn't _weak_ but he _is_ susceptible. The older man's tightening grip on his waist makes Will feel as though he can't breathe deep enough, but he will let him do this, whatever _this_ is, because Will can only prove his love by offering himself, drenched in blood or writhing on his back – and this distinctly feels like an opportunity for him to do the latter.

Sure enough, he isn't wrong. 

Once a tense moment of silence has passed, Hannibal seizes Will's thin wrists in his hands and maneuvers him to the bed. Will draws a sharp breath as he's pushed down on top of the neat covers, hands pinned above his head and breath forced out of his lungs as Hannibal's sits astride his torso, further securing him in place. Will half-heartedly attempts to wiggle himself free while the older man's weight settles on his stomach, but it only serves to tighten his restraints.

”Don't play coy with me, Will.” The older man cautions, an edge to his soft voice. Will can sense a twisted sort of playfulness there, in his voice, on his face – even in the forceful brutality of his iron grip. Will has seen enough of Hannibal's inner beast to know when it's flashing its teeth at him, and this isn't it. ”You keep evading my question. I need you to tell me the truth.”

Will tries to laugh, only managing a strained little gasp as he struggles to breathe underneath the weight of Hannibal, pressing down on him like a vice.

”And if I don't?” 

Hannibal growls then, dipping down to kiss the pretty pink of the younger man's lips, parted like a flesh wound before him. He slides his tongue across Will's full bottom lip, as if asking for permission, and once Will opens his mouth in a wordless invitation Hannibal positively _devours_ him; his mouth crashing against Will's like waves onto a shore, swallowing the muted moans escaping his lips. Warmth pools in Will's gut and he is so hard he's aching, his body overstimulated and sensitive to touch after having been denied release for so long. Finally, Hannibal releases his grip on Will's wrists, moving away from him to remove his own jacket, waistcoat and shirt, unbuttoning his pants and tossing them on to the floor along with his underwear. Once he has rid himself of his clothes, he leans down to tear open Will's shirt, undoing the buttons on his pants and yanking them down. Will reaches down with stiff, almost trembling hands to slide his boxers down, but then Hannibal catches both of his twig-thin wrists in one hand and throws them back down on the the bed with a punishing force.

”Your hands stay here, no matter where mine go.” He practically snarls, squeezing his wrists for emphasis, making the younger man groan in pain. It's only a quick flash, only the proverbial tip of the iceberg, but Will is momentarily gripped by fear as he detects the flare of animalistic ferocity flickering by in Hannibal's eyes. He shifts underneath the stronger, more experienced killer pinning him down, instinctively trying to shrink away.

(Really, Hannibal has not tapped into the primal rage that might seize him if Will had indeed acted in a way that called for a reprimand; if this was not merely a little game they had crafted for themselves. Although, he might admit that he was slipping, just a little bit – he is only human after all and Will does look particularly exquisite when he is paralyzed with fear, like gullible prey caught between fight-and-flight mode, chest heaving and eyes impossibly wide. It secretly pleases him. Hannibal is a man to be feared, after all, especially by those he loves.)

Now that most of their clothes are scattered across the floor, Hannibal dips down to press his lips to the soft, pale skin of Will's neck, sinking his teeth just underneath his carotid artery. Will inhales sharply as Hannibal almost draws blood, jaws clamped down on his sensitive skin. When a dark bruise has begun to form, he moves on to kiss his shoulders and his chest, teasing his hardening nipples with broad strokes of his tongue. As Will starts squirming and whining underneath him, Hannibal uses his free hand to reach into Will's boxers and stroke his hard member, wet and leaking with precum.

”Oh, Han- mmh,” Will moans, bucking up to meet the movements of Hannibal's hand. ”So good.”

”It will be,” Hannibal agrees as he ceases his ministrations to slide Will's underwear down, jerking the younger man's legs apart as he's done so. One of his hands are still holding Will's wrists in a tight grip. He slides two of his free fingers inside the wet heat of Will's mouth and has the younger man lick and suck them until they're coated with sticky saliva, then he starts preparing him roughly, just enough so that he won't cause any serious harm to the sensitive tissue. When he deems his preparations sufficient, he gives himself a few wet, cursory strokes, before positioning himself between Will's legs and thrusting into the tight heat of his flesh. The younger man throws his head back and howls in pain, fists clenching and unclenching in Hannibal's grip.

”This is not a punishment.” Hannibal states as he pulls out slightly, only to snap his hips forward with a harsh thrust. The sounds pouring from the younger man's mouth are almost melodious, a string of wavering vowels. ”This is a _reward_. If you were to do something that truly called for a reprimand, it would be _nothing_ like this, because it would have nothing to do with anything so trite as sexual intercourse. Make of that what you will.”

Will nods, brows pinched over his tightly shut eyes. His quivering form is stiff and rigid, skin stretched taut over the tense, bulging muscles of his arms. Deciding to further challenge Will's boundaries – almost bordering on pushing his luck, he's sure – Hannibal keeps his wrists in a steady grip in his right hand while letting his other hand wrap around his throat, squeezing firmly enough to bruise, but not enough to block his airways completely. First, Will stills completely, his eyes widening, breath hitching in his throat. Hannibal thinks that he's on the verge of having a panic attack, but then -

His body goes limp. A shaky exhale escapes his quivering lips as tension practically melts off his body. Hannibal smiles reassuringly, a feeling of accomplishment building in the pit of his stomach. Something in Will finally seems to trust him enough to _let go_. At least here, within the confines of their bedroom. Hannibal will find a way for Will's trust to expand, to encompass all of their interactions.

”Perfect,” The older man murmurs softly, filling his voice with a warm, honeyed sweetness, still thrusting relentlessly into the yielding flesh and quietly enjoying the strained moaning sounds it elicits from Will's lips. ”You are doing so well, Will.”

 

*

 

There will come a time in their lives when they have settled enough in their intimacy to share lazy kisses in the morning, tongues languidly sliding against each other as they wake to the dull rays of morning sun creeping in through their bedroom window. There will come a time when Will savors the fullness of Hannibal inside him like a fine bourbon, slowly and steadily, not in any sort of hurry to make a quick finish of it. But this time is not now. Now, they tear into each other with ravenous appetites, ruthless and urgent and rough, their bruised skin testament to their hunger; underneath their tidy everyday wear, just beneath where a buttoned-up collar would normally sit, both of them are a mess in shades of black and blue. 

(Will more so than Hannibal, admittedly, and Hannibal can't be quite sure whether that's because of him or Will. Maybe the younger man is just more used to breaking and Hannibal is more used to break.)

”A necklace to match my smile.” Will says as he stands naked before the full-figure mirror in their bedroom, pressing his fingers into the dark bruises marring the skin on his neck. Hannibal is standing behind him, arms wrapped around his waist.

”Won't you give me one to match my stripes?”

Hannibal twists his arms slightly to display the deep scars adorning his wrists, looking like botched suicide attempts to anyone who doesn't know their origins. Will smiles, reaching up to caress Hannibal's neck with the tips of his fingers. Then he turns around, gently grabbing the other man's throat as he backs him up to a wall. Will's touch is always either rough or gentle, as if he can't quite decide how he is supposed to handle him; whether Hannibal is iron or porcelain, a wild horse to be broken in or a lap dog to scratch behind the ear. Sometimes, the older man could swear that Will treats him like he would one of his strays, his touch firm and corrective, yet never unnecessarily cruel.

This time, however, Will's gentle grip on his throat slowly becomes tighter and tighter, proving the considerable strength in those deceitfully slender arms. A shallow exhale is forced out of Hannibal's throat as Will keeps squeezing, his warm body pressed up against his.

”I always regretted not being able to be there, to watch the damage being done. Seeing as it was my doing and all.” The younger man says, voice strangely thick. ”The thought of you balancing on that filthy bucket, noose around your neck. On the brink of death with your blood just dripping on to the floor, wasted. It isn't what I would have done. Isn't my design.”

He pauses for a moment, gaze flickering between different parts of Hannibal's face, and then he presses his mouth against the other man's parted lips, giving him a soft little kiss that could almost be considered chaste. If it weren't, of course, for the way his body is pressed up against him, needy and pulsing with desire, his eyes dark as a pool of blood when he opens them again to look at him.

”Maybe I would have done it just like this. No theatrics, no poetry to be read between the lines. We don't need any of that, you and I.” His eyes are brimming with an almost palpable fondness. ”I bet you'd love that.” 

Then, to Hannibal's surprise, Will's lips split into a wonky grin; a genuine _smile_ that for once reaches his eyes, wide enough to grant Hannibal a rare glimpse of his charmingly chipped cuspid canine.

”That, or you'd fucking _despise_ it.” The younger man chuckles, shaking his head with his eyes downcast.

 _I love it_ , Hannibal thinks to himself, reveling in Will's warm hand gripping his throat, basking in the affectionate tenderness to be found in the younger man's face; a treat so rarely afforded him, this pure affection that isn't tainted by doubt or fear or any of the other knee-jerk reactions their messy history has instilled in Will. He is suddenly afraid to blink, gripped by the irrational fear that the warm glow of this unadulterated tenderness might vanish from Will's face, should he look away. Just as his vision is becoming blurred and unfocused, world toppling over despite Hannibal's standing still, Will releases his grip. The younger man wraps his arms around him, steadying his wavering steps.

”I love you.” Hannibal mumbles breathlessly in a throaty voice, meaning to say – _I love it._ But it's all the same, and as Will lowers them both to the floor he cradles him in his arms and rests his cheek against the top of his head, as if he knows.


	3. Adessurio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _”_ I _think it's ugly anyway.” Will suddenly declares. ”I'm not doing it because I think it's attractive.”_
> 
> _He feels that it is important that Hannibal knows. That he isn't deluded enough to think that this is beautiful; the way his bones protrude, skin ashy and translucent. Will is not deluded._
> 
> As Hannibal pursues a victim on his own, Will tries to cope with the eating disorder he has been struggling with for the better part of his life. He isn't doing too hot.

To Will, Hannibal is a series of doors. Ones that are locked, ones that are opened and ones that are slightly ajar, granting him only a glimpse of what's inside. Will has found that while his hand will reach for the handles of these half opened doors, he ultimately won't pull them back to reveal what they're hiding. Not because he can't, but because he doesn't want to. 

He tells himself that he doesn't have to anyway. Will is already intimately acquainted with what Hannibal is. To the extent anyone might be able to grasp what exactly that is, anyway; in the words of the man himself, there's no consensus in the psychiatric community what he should be termed. Hannibal has seized the opportunity to inform people of this on more than one occasion, stating his uniqueness handcuffed to interrogation tables, restricted by a straightjackets and kept safely behind the thick glass wall of his prison cell. When Will first heard him say it, it was the unmistakable trace of pride to his voice that made him realize just how _comfortable_ Hannibal is in his own skin. Even as he was imprisoned, chained up and dressed in an anonymous prison uniform, his lips would curve into a bemused smile, just a hint of smugness to it.

If there is anything Will can trust to stay the same, it's that; the way the corners of Hannibal's mouth will turn up in that familiar little puzzle of a smile, pleasant yet completely open to interpretation. To this day, Will has never heard him truly _laugh_. He thinks that Hannibal may have lost this part of himself to the past, buried it along with his sister's empty casket.

He will not look behind that door to find out.

 

*

 

Will thinks about the woman that approached him that night at the opera. She was more or less like any other woman, nothing really notable or unusual about her. Which probably meant that there _was_. Something she was trying to hide with her plain dress and plain hair, slightly obscuring her perfectly plain face. There was an edge to her eyes that caught his attention when he briefly looked up to meet her gaze. He thinks he would have liked to know her, under different circumstances. Wouldn't have minded kissing the garbled English from those chapstick-softened lips, but then again, he always did confuse common decency with attraction and would fuck any girl that threw him a bone if they only asked.

(He is unaware of the fact that Hannibal knows about this affliction and hunted her down for good measure the morning after the performance, unceremoniously slitting her throat as the sun rose wearily above the horizon, telling himself he meant to do it anyway – regardless of her affiliation with Will.)

 

*

 

It's a regular Saturday night, yet Hannibal has spent hours preparing an extraordinary feast, plating a three course meal with tender care and setting the table with solemn precision. As Will lets his eyes wander across the lavishly decorated dining room table, he wonders if he's mistaken and they're, in fact, to entertain guests. But only two sets of impeccable plates, glasses and cutlery are featured in the lush scenery in front of him, telling him it's all just meant for the two of them.

”Should I be worried?” Will asks with a straight face as he approaches the table. ”Clearly this is an attempt to fatten me up.”

Hannibal chuckles, an amused look on his face.

”Rest assured, I enjoy my meat lean. I just like to spoil you.” He gestures for the younger man to take a seat, pulling out his chair for him. To this day, Hannibal's strict adherence to etiquette makes Will flustered; he can't help but feeling the slightest twinge of shame at his own perceived clumsiness. A brief image of a wobbly-legged fawn flashes before his eyes as he sits down and folds his hands in his lap, an almost insecure smile gracing his lips. Hannibal sits down across from him, raising his glass, and so Will does too.

”To us.” Hannibal says with a gentle smile.

”To us.” Will agrees and takes a sip, closing his eyes to fully appreciate the fragrant, rounded flavor of the wine filling his palate. 

As much as Will looks forward to the meal Hannibal has prepared for the better part of the day, his enthusiasm quickly starts to waver when he is served his appetizer. He narrows his eyes, looking over the components of the dainty little dish, slowly coming to realize what it is he’s looking at.

”Well then,” Will reaches for his cutlery, cutting up the food on his plate into smaller pieces. ”To whom do we owe this delightful meal, then?” 

He already knows the answer to this question. Hannibal always thinks he's one step ahead, thinks that Will somehow doesn't keep track, but he is confident that he was _not_ present when the cuts of meat sitting on his plate were harvested. Hannibal has been hunting on his own, and Will is fairly certain he knows who he pursued. It's strange how little it bothers him. He can't put a face on the food on his plate, feeling emotionally detached despite knowing exactly what he is eating.

”I picked up some groceries on my own.” Hannibal says in a level voice, taking a sip of wine. ”I assumed you wouldn't mind.”

Will's field of vision is suddenly obscured by the familiar swing of a pendulum; one stroke erasing the dish off of his plate, the next bringing it back, a bloody slab of raw meat too large to fit on the delicate plate, dripping blood on to the table. One drop, two drops. Another golden swing of a pendulum, and his half-eaten dish is back on the plate. He blinks. It doesn't work like it used to, this tool he devised to deal with his abilities – it malfunctioned along with his mind long ago, only offering chopped up chains of events, timelines without continuity. 

He keeps eating, hardly even registering what he's tasting as he chews mechanically, trying not to imagine the way the meat settles in his stomach. He would have liked to kiss her. If only just to know; it's been so long since he kissed anyone but Hannibal that he can't remember what it was like pressing his lips to a mouth that hasn't torn into raw flesh, whose teeth don't know the exact amount of pressure to apply to break skin. As he swallows the last bite of his appetizer, he thinks to himself that there are so many ways to consume another human being.

 

*

 

(Will recalls the stories of goblin men and their food; fruit like honey to the throat but poison in the blood. Age old mythological tales have taught him that mortals venturing into the underworld must resist the temptation of tasting its fruits. But goblin men might be disguised, and the king of the underworld has long since kissed the juices from his lips.)

 

*

 

Hannibal can never tell for sure if Will is happy. Not only because he is prone to rather dramatic mood swings, but also because he has always had the grating habit of concealing his feelings underneath layers of wry retorts and self-deprecating remarks. Hannibal is perceptive enough to conclude that this is his protective armor, keeping him safe from people trying to get too close to him. Either way, he has settled for looking for signs that Will is _not_ happy instead, the biggest tip-off being when Will starts drinking. Hannibal has always been wholly incapable of sussing out the patterns to this drinking, and suspects that Will has a constant, on-going dispute with himself that sometimes gets the best of him. Normally, his periods of drinking will be brief but intense, lasting only a few days; a raging storm leaving the vast blue of a clear sky in its wake. Hannibal disapproves, of course, but has reluctantly decided to let it slide as he has come to discover that Will responds best to this approach.

That is, until Will during the span of one week drinks his way through five bottles of cheap whisky Hannibal can't recall having bought, along with whatever else he can pry from their liquor cabinet – empty beer bottles piling up in the kitchen next to empty bottles of wine, lined up like makeshift target practice. Despite observing Will's state of disarray with increasing alarm, Hannibal says nothing. Then, one day, when Will is staggering out of the bathroom, he smells an acid tang on the younger man's breath that turns his simmering blood into a boil.

”Will, this is unacceptable.” Hannibal charges his voice with stern, paternal authority as he makes his way into the living room, where Will is sitting curled up in his armchair, reeking of alcohol and sour, day-old sweat, an almost empty bottle of whisky on the table in front of him next to an almost full glass. ”I will not sit by and watch as you drink yourself into a stupor. Day drinking is one thing, but to the point where you feel sick, making a mess of yourself before we have even had lunch?”

It's so subtle, the way Will crinkles his nose in confusion – only for a split second, before his face regains the look of detached indifference. Hannibal narrows his eyes, immediately sensing that there is something he is missing.

”I've just been dealing with stuff.” Will offers, speech slurred. ”You know I'll come out of it soon. Like I always do.”

Will reaches for the glass of watered down whisky on the living room table and Hannibal catches his wrist in his hand, not through lecturing him. Then, he notices it. Will's wrist was always thin, but he could swear it felt even skinnier now. His breath is sour. Hannibal twists his wrist, a little more roughly than he intended, and rakes his eyes over the back of his hand. Sure enough, there it is, so small that he never took notice of it; the faded, almost unnoticeable scar tissue covering the knuckles connecting to his index- and ring finger, indicating a prolonged period of self-induced vomiting. The mark on one of those bony knuckles is _reddened._

(Just as this realization hits him, Hannibal is reminded of the way Will has been leaving the tap running for suspicious amounts of time while in the bathroom, the way he has slept in a large t-shirt and pyjama bottoms despite not usually wearing much to bed, the way he has been picking at his food, shoving it around on the plate with his fork, and he feels a _pang_ of fury – hitting him in the chest hard enough that he almost _reels_ , but he has nowhere to aim it, no one to pin it on except himself.)

Will can see that Hannibal can see, and snatches his hand away as if his touch burned. He quickly reaches for his glass, staring down Hannibal with the wary, yet challenging eyes of a wild animal protecting its territory as he takes a steady swig of the amber liquid, gulping it down until it's empty. Then he leans back into the chair, closing his eyes. Hannibal says nothing, does nothing, forcing himself to turn around and walk away, lest the waves of bitter rage roiling in his blood urge him to act unnecessarily rash.

 

*

 

Abigail's ear. Of all the wounds Hannibal's inflicted, this is by far the deepest cut. Torn into skin that already consisted of fragile scar tissue, a crisscross of badly healed wounds. Will has always had trouble eating – for as long as he can remember, in fact – but there was definitely a before and an after the incident with Abigail's ear. During his time at the facility for the criminally insane, there were days where he couldn't will himself to even _look_ at the plastic tray filled with grey globs of insubstantial food. A flash of her severed ear would hit him, and he'd remember the sinewy texture, the burn in his throat when he threw it up in his sink. His tongue would remember the taste of her bloodied skin, the coppery tang permeating his mouth. He'd either vomit as an automatic response or shove his fingers down his throat, convinced little parts of her were dissolving – no, _rotting away_ – in his stomach. One day, he woke up in the prison hospital, hooked up to an IV. He vaguely recalls the way the nurse had frowned as she had to add bulimia nervosa to his growing list of diagnosed illnesses.

”How did I not know that you are bulimic?” 

Hannibal is sitting in the armchair across from him, leaned forward with his legs spread and his elbows resting on top of his thighs, hands clasped. A problem-solving kind of position, practical and determined. His usually full lips are reduced to a tight, thin line of concern. Will frowns, wishing he was either a little more sober or a little more drunk.

”It's not something that I _am_.” He finally mumbles, wincing at the way the words slip around in his mouth, stubbornly resisting his tongue's attempts to shape them. ”Besides, it isn't that big of a deal. Didn't bring it up because it isn't important.”

It is a lie, of course. Even before Hannibal, Will has had issues with food: not eating for hours only to sate the hunger carving painful hollows into his stomach with impossible amounts of food. Throwing it all up moments later, bent over his toilet, his clammy cheek resting against the cold porcelain as the burn in his throat would fade into a dull ache. He imagines all the meals he's skipped. Endless rows of plates. All the meals he's thrown up. It's all impossible to estimate, much less picture.

”How might it not be important when you are doing it right now?” Hannibal practically _barks_ in response, making Will flinch involuntarily. He is used to the older man's voice being a gentle lull, unsure if he's ever even heard him raise his voice. As Hannibal takes note of the way he recoils, he takes a deep breath, seemingly collecting himself. He rests his head in his hands, closing his eyes.

”Individuals may develop eating disorders for a wide range of reasons. Family is often an important factor, as bulimia commonly manifests in subjects whose families have been unable to fulfill their emotional or physical needs.” Hannibal is using the emotionally disconnected voice he normally reserves for clients, seemingly trying to distance himself from his disorganized state of mind by going through the motions of a therapy session. ”Family members may be unable or unwilling to communicate, and feelings may not be verbally expressed.” He captures Will's gaze. ”You have told me that you grew up with a single father that you never spent much time with, as circumstances forced him to work two jobs.”

Will doesn't know whether to feel angry, sad or amused at the notion of Hannibal immediately searching for a cause beyond his own influence. Either way, he feels very strongly that he doesn't want to talk about it. Mostly because he doesn't know where to begin. He could begin where he is mostly visual and auditory impressions, where the world was always looming above him, out of his reach: where he grew up, settled in one trailer park after another in rural Louisiana, poor and – as he would come to realize later – borderline malnourished, all soft skin draped over not enough fat. He remembers the way food simultaneously felt like a treat and a pain, the way it would remove him from his body by easing the dull, vague ache in his stomach, the way he'd sometimes throw it all up again because his body was unused to processing food. He considered it unpleasant, not abnormal, and his body accepted this as a truth. 

When he grew older and finally managed to get a job of his own, earning a small amount of money for the first time, there were suddenly so many things to fill his belly. He'd eat too much instead, not being able to stop, gaining weight only to lose it again on his knees, face down in yellowed porcelain. It took years for him to figure out how food habits were supposed to work, what amounts of food were considered normal to eat. He still mostly relies on what he knows to be normal, not quite trusting his body's cues. Still, he slips sometimes. Like now. He isn't sure what set it off, sometimes it just happens. A force of habit more than anything else.

(But he has been thinking about family a lot. The one he had, the one he lost, and the one he gained. His father, Abigail, Hannibal. As soon as he's finished that thought, he realizes that he completely forgot about Molly and her son. He doesn't know how to feel about that yet.)

”It's a variety of things, Hannibal.” He says, gulping. ”I don't want to talk about it. Please.”

Hannibal studies him quietly.

”As you wish. We don't need to discuss it in great detail right this moment, but you need to tell me why you are doing it now. Otherwise, I won't be able to help you.” 

The older man looks at him sternly, the steely edge to his voice leaving no room for negotiation. Will briefly wonders what would happen if he just ran, bolted up the stairs and locked himself in the bathroom. Hannibal would probably catch him. He always does. If he didn't, a locked door would be no match for him. Will practically feels himself shrinking, drawing his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around them to keep himself together.

”I don't know.” He mumbles, focusing his gaze on a barely noticeable crack in one of the floorboards. ”I don't- like the texture of it.”

This is true, he realizes as soon as he says it.

”You don't like the texture of what?”

”Food.” He says, flatly. ”I don't like the textures. There are so many of them, and they're all so different from each other. I don't like to chew, and I _hate_ to swallow and when it's in my stomach, I can feel it there like an anchor, weighing me down.”

Hannibal blinks a few times, a response Will is almost certain that he is not in control of. Then he stands up, wordlessly making his way into the kitchen to prepare their dinner. When Hannibal returns to serve Will a bowl of smooth vegetable soup, he steels his eyes to clarify that he will not take no for an answer. Then he takes a seat across from the younger man, still curled up in his armchair drenched in rancid sweat, smelling of alcohol and remnants of sour gastric acid, and keeps a watchful eye on him for the rest of the evening. When Will has gone to sleep later that night, he pours the remaining bottles of cheap whisky down the drain and locks the liquor cabinet, pocketing the key. Before joining him in bed, he briefly considers taking the bathroom door off its hinges until Will stops displaying signs of self-induced vomiting, but decides to settle on following the other man into the bathroom instead. Privacy is a luxury afforded those who can properly maintain it.

 

*

 

Three days later, Will is eating regularly. He has reluctantly stopped drinking and the angry red of the marks on his hand are beginning to fade away again. When they lie next to each other in bed one night, Hannibal runs his hand along Will's ribcage, fingers bumping repeatedly against the hard edges of his slightly more prominent ribs. Will has always been skinny, but Hannibal can tell that he's lost weight. He hasn't asked the younger man how many meals he even managed to keep down the past week, because he does not want to know.

”Do you think it's ugly?” Will's voice is monotonous, making the inquiry sound like a statement rather than a question. Hannibal frowns, his hand coming to rest on top of the soft skin of his too-flat stomach.

”I am sad to see you malnourished, obviously.” 

”I didn't ask that.”

Hannibal exhales.

”No, I suspect I might never find anything about you ugly.” He says, quite truthfully, pressing a soft kiss to Will's forehead. The younger man leans into it and Hannibal pulls him into his arms, fingers tangling in his hair as he starts scratching his head. He thinks Will might find comfort in this simple yet ingenuous act, a social cue he can identify from tending to his pack of dogs. As he cradles the smaller man's diminished frame close to his chest, sighing inwardly when Will’s knobby knees and sharp hipbones dig into his flesh, he feels a peculiar sensation creeping up on him, vaguely reminiscent of déja vu.

” _I_ think it's ugly anyway.” Will suddenly declares, shifting in the older man's embrace. ”I'm not doing it because I think it's attractive.”

He feels that it is important that Hannibal knows. That he isn't deluded enough to think that this is beautiful; the way his bones protrude, skin ashy and translucent. Will is not deluded. 

”I believe you.” Hannibal affirms, his grip on his waist tightening. Protectively, bordering on anxiously.

 

*

 

”You never really told me much about your father.” Hannibal remarks one day, weeks later, as they're having tea in the living room while listening to the pitter-patter of rain outside the window. ”Would you humor me?” 

Will flinches at the mention of his father and purses his lips, almost feeling ambushed by Hannibal's frankness. Mulling over the other man's inquiry, he finds that he doesn't even remember much of his dad. Really, he can't recall the details of his childhood very much at all. As a hypersensitive child, impressionable to everything and anything around, he was forced to adopt a jaded frame of mind. Consciously making an effort not to register his surroundings, it became second nature to drown out everything around until all sound was muted and all images were blurred. When he thinks back to himself, he sees a small, grey little figure against the backdrop of the muted browns and greens of his childhood surroundings. Always trotting around in the barren landscape of trailer parks, or walking alone in the thick woods, careful not to disturb the almost sacred silence of the swamps. Always wearing the same sweater; a worn, patched up old thing, big enough to slide down his shoulder as it used to be his father’s. _Runt_ , is a word that comes to mind. _White trash_ , another. The day he turned eighteen, he left home and never looked back, the slow drawl and thick lilts of his accent the only thing left reminding him of his humble beginnings. Eventually, he shed this too, pushing the memory of his adolescence into the dark corners of his mind. 

”I won't use it as an excuse to discuss the details of your condition.” Hannibal says, obviously sensing Will's discomfort. ”Think of it as mere curiosity, prompted by sentiment. The specifics of your past is a part of you I have yet to explore, and I simply do not wish to leave any stone unturned with you.”

Will sighs deeply, almost exasperated, as he feels his resolve crumbling.

”I don't know what to tell you, Hannibal. My dad was always working and I didn't really get the chance to get to know him that well.” He pauses. ”He was hardly ever home, and when he was, he was just- there. Days would pass by without us speaking a word to each other.”

”And your mother?”

”She died, when I was nine. Cancer. Don't remember her much.”

”So it was just you and him, then.” Hannibal concludes. 

”Just me and him.” Will confirms. 

The older man averts his gaze, wearing a look of solemn contemplation on his face. After a few moments of silence, he sits up straight, slightly squaring his shoulders.

”Surely you're aware that absent fathers often are a source of psychological complications in adults.” He begins, and Will can feel himself tense up, jaw clenching. ”Feelings of anger, resentment. A desperate need to be validated. It might result in a tendency to avoid all sorts of mentorships, friendships or even romantic and sexual relationships, as the subject may fear their own intense need of recognition from a father figure.” The older man pauses. ”Do you, in any way, relate your father to me?” 

Will doesn't even try to hide the contempt seeping into his voice as he offers a reply, leaning forward and looking intently at the man sitting across from him.

”What makes you think that I would?”

Hannibal quirks an eyebrow, the look on his face implying that he knows that Will knows the answer to that question already. He folds his hands in his lap as he tilts his chin up, studying Will attentively.

”I'm twenty years older than you, and I used to be your psychiatrist. One might think that makes for a rather substantial sort of father figure.” Hannibal's voice borders on professional, facial expression betraying nothing other than mild interest. ”Can you honestly say that your feelings toward me are completely unaffected by and unrelated to those you have toward your father?”

Will's apprehension suddenly matures into a flaming rage, and he clamps his teeth down to stop himself from saying something he might live to regret. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

”Why are you doing this?” He asks, voice strained with the effort not to shout. ”Why do you always have to play some sort of game with me? You said you wouldn't make it about my- my _condition_ , yet you wouldn't hesitate to make a point about some alleged _daddy issues_ of mine?”

”Will, you misunderstand-”

Will stands up, interrupting Hannibal by stabbing an accusing finger in his direction.

”You are _nothing_ like my dad, I'll have you know. He may have been a crude, blundering old fool with an alcohol addiction who never made it past the state line, and he may have been ham-handed as far as providing care and affection goes, but he was still a _well-intentioned_ man.”

This barbed retort doesn't seem to bother Hannibal in the slightest, which only serves to make Will ball up his fists in frustration, heart thumping feverishly beneath his ribs. It's no less than _infuriating_ , the way Hannibal's cool disposition makes Will look rash and immature, lashing out and throwing tantrums like a child. He draws a deep, shaky breath, closing his eyes as he sinks back down into his chair again, heavy with humiliation.

”I was not trying to get a rise out of you, Will.” Hannibal sounds sincere, but then again, he usually does. ”I want to understand, and help you understand. To our mutual benefit.” Will doesn't believe that for a second, and he resists an urge to scoff. ”However, you don't have to answer my question if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Will starts picking at an uneven nail, gnawed and frayed at the corners.

”There was a time when I considered you a figure of stability and support.” He says, not looking up. ”And I suppose you are and have always been a man from whom I seek approval.”

”These things considered, how do you feel when I offer validation and affection?”

He stops picking at his nail, looking up to meet Hannibal's gaze.

”I don't know. How do _you_ feel when my state of mind deteriorates due to mental illness, rendering me vulnerable and helpless?” He pauses. ”Much like your sister, when you were a boy.”

A moment of completely undisturbed silence passes before any of them speak again.

”You do remind me of Mischa.” Hannibal finally says in a level voice. ”And it does appeal to my compassion, stirring something vaguely paternal in me. I don't consider it a disadvantage; it simply means I want to care for you. You ought to indulge me, seeing as it lines up perfectly with your own psychological make-up.”

”You killed that woman I met at the opera.”

Hannibal looks almost surprised, as if that was the last thing he was expecting to hear. Will wasn't really expecting to say it either.

”Yes, I did.”

Will hears himself swallow. Then he puts his trembling hands on the armrests of his chair to gain leverage, standing up and slowly walking out of the room. Once he has made his way into the hallway, feet moving almost automatically, he grabs his coat and steps into his shoes. He takes his keys from the hallway table, opens the front door and steps outside, drawing a deep, cleansing breath of chilly autumn air. Then he starts walking.

 

*

 

What was it that made him resent Hannibal to the point of loathing a few years back? 

Being played with. Like a wind-up toy for Hannibal's amusement. Being experimented on. Manipulated, probed, _molded_. Like a piece of passive clay. What is forgiveness, if not a decision? Will decided years ago to forgive, because he too had done things to Hannibal, gradually chipping away at the marble of the older man's disposition. They had changed each other. Past tense.

Yet, when they first moved in together, Hannibal threw away all his old flannels and replaced them with new, more expensive ones in muted shades, fitting neatly into the color palette of his new wardrobe. And since a few years back, Will has stopped grabbing his wine glasses by the bulb, simultaneously giving up drinking whisky from regular water glasses. All because Hannibal's face would subtly contort in discontent when he did, making him feel as if he'd erred.

Will wonders briefly what would happen if he just ran. Hannibal would catch him, as he always does. Except he wouldn't have to, because Will wouldn't run, _could_ never run. He used to think Hannibal was his Penelope, but he is slowly realizing that the older man is his Ithaka. The beloved, sacred grounds of home.

(Then again, unlike Odysseus, Will always felt safe at sea; comforted by the gentle rocking of waves, blissfully removed from the demanding world beyond the shoreline. He always felt the most at ease when he viewed his house in Wolf Trap at night from a distance, seeing the yellow light of his windows glowing in the vast darkness, making his home look like a little boat out at sea.)

 

*

 

When Will is back home again, his ears are met with the distinctive sound of Hannibal playing the harpsichord. The quaint, rather peculiar instrument was one of the first things the older man bought for their home, and he has spent many quiet evenings playing and composing. Will has come to appreciate the strange music flowing from his fingers, the way he will scribble down strings of notes in his book of sheet music while tentatively trying out new melodies. He follows the sound of the harpsichord, making his way into the living room. Hannibal does not look up to greet him, merely continuing his playing, gaze locked onto his sheet music. It's a rather gloomy, fast-paced piece – Will might even deem it dramatic, but he doesn't think much of it. The songs Hannibal play never seem to reflect his emotional state anyway. He takes a few tentative steps forward, slowly approaching him.

”What are you playing?”

”One of Händel's Harpsichord Suites,” Hannibal finally tilts his head up to look at him. There is no trace of emotion to be found in his even facial features. ”Fuga I in G minor.”

”I don't think I've ever heard it.” 

”No, I don't suppose you would have.” Had anyone else said it, Will would have taken it as an insult. But Hannibal has a certain way of merely stating a likely fact, lacking any overt arrogance or disdain. ”Did you have a nice walk?” 

”Yeah.” Will sits down next to the other man on the padded stool, watching the way his nimble fingers work the keys. He rests his head on Hannibal's shoulder. ”That looks hard. Is it like playing the piano?”

”In some ways, yes, but it is fundamentally different in all the ways that matter.” Hannibal says in response, still playing. ”Both the harpsichord and the piano are string instruments, but whereas hammers are used to strike the strings of a piano, the strings are plucked in a harpsichord. The notes can't be sustained, and since there is no way of controlling the length of the notes, one needs a delicate touch and a developed rhythmic sense to connect or divide sounds, subtly playing either fast or slow to give variety to the expression and movement of the sound.” Hannibal smiles, almost fondly. ”These things considered, the harpsichord is not quite as forgiving as the piano.”

”I don't want you to kill without me. Not without my knowledge, anyway.” 

Will hadn't meant to just blurt it out, but now that he had, he felt relieved – even knowing a potentially tasking discussion might follow. Hannibal's playing slowly ceases, fading into silence. He would never do anything as theatrical as just stopping.

”You would deny me the one constant of my nature?” Hannibal's voice is flat, still there's an air of disbelief to it. He is obviously not used to being told anything.

”I didn't say that.” Will is still leaning against the other man's shoulder, his gaze lowered and fixed on his feet. ”I just want to know. It feels like you're sneaking around behind my back. When you involved me in your life, you signed up for this. It can't just be you anymore, because it _isn't_.”

Hannibal exhales, something like a sigh escaping his lips. Without the rich sound of the baroque music filling the room, the silence is almost imposing.

”There was a time I would have gladly made a trophy out of you, keeping you alive only in thought.” Hannibal finally says. ”Like a butterfly, I thought I could keep you contained within a glass frame, mounted on my wall.” 

”And now?”

”Ironically, I find myself in the position of such a creature myself. A moth, drawn to your light.”

Will nestles closer, burying his face in the crook of Hannibal's neck, where his skin is warm and soft.

”Moths get burned.” He says then in a hushed tone, breath ghosting across the exposed skin of the older man's neck.

”Yes, such is their fate.” Hannibal's puts a hand on his cheek, tilting Will's head up; not letting his gaze wander. ”And the light is left to mourn the loss.” 

Will wants to smile, but he's afraid it'll come off as more like a scowl. So he tries to soften his features into something mild instead, something warm and gentle that'll instill the same sense of blossoming warmth in the older man's chest. 

”You're wrong, Hannibal.” He nuzzles the tip of his nose against the other man's as an invitation. ”I'm not a butterfly. I'm not a light, and you're not a moth. _We_ are wolves, shunned by our own, our bond made stronger because of it.”

The older man closes the distance between them, sealing their lips in a kiss. As their tongues slide against one another, slowly and intently, Hannibal unbuttons Will's shirt, letting his hands wander across the vast expanse of exposed skin, pale and soft to the touch. It's almost _lewd_ , the way his large hands caress his stomach, fondling his chest before his fingers move on to rub the hardening nubs of his nipples, pinching them gently until he winces. Will draws a trembling breath as Hannibal drops to the floor, kneeling between his legs while he remains perched on the stool. The older man starts unbuckling Will's belt, caressing his thighs and hips as he unzips his pants, freeing his hardening length from his boxers. Will always finds it jarring, the way this position never makes Hannibal look vulnerable. Rather, he reminds Will of an animal of prey, crouching near the ground preparing to pounce. It might just all be in his head though, because he already _knows_ that Hannibal would never be compromised by anything so banal as a traditionally submissive position.

Will's musings are interrupted as Hannibal wraps a firm hand around him, circling the head of his cock with wet strokes of his tongue. Will's hands come to rest at the back of the other man’s neck as the wet heat of his mouth envelops him, drawing a gasp of pleasure past his lips. Will is almost surprised at the way Hannibal is handling him; while his touch is as firm and decisive as usual, movements verging on authoritative, there is a certain gentleness there that Will isn't quite familiar with. He wears the result of Hannibal's usual lack of caution all over his body, the inside of his thighs bitten and bruised, the delicate skin on his neck mottled with deep purples and bright yellows, his wrists perpetually sore due to the older man's iron grip and penchant to physically restrain him. When they last did this, Hannibal had a dangerous glint in his dark eyes, teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he devoured him. Now, his mouth is only tight heat, soft and wet, and his appetite is that of a gourmand rather than someone starved; eyes closed as if he's savoring the taste and feel of him. Will hisses as Hannibal picks up the pace, head bobbing steadily up and down, and then he finally comes with a muffled groan, hands gripping the short hair at the back of the older man’s neck. 

Hannibal swallows obediently, lapping up sticky remnants of semen before releasing his gentle grip on Will’s hips and coming to a standing position. When his stomach is level with Will's face, the younger man immediately starts tugging on his belt. Hannibal frowns at Will's fumbling attempt at reciprocity. He offers no kisses, no caresses, only jerkily trying to undress him. He doesn't seem _eager_ , exactly, but definitely in a rush – licking his lips and moving quickly as if he wants to get it over with. Hannibal grabs his thin little wrists, making him come to a stop.

”You don't have to do anything, Will.” He assures him, offering a smile. The younger man looks almost confused, drawing his brow.

”No,” His voice curves at the end, making it sound like a question. ”I know.”

Will is in many ways very soft, but he is not necessarily sweet; all pointed edges and bottled up resentment, seeping out in grumpy rebuttals and snide remarks. But the way he looks up at Hannibal, eyes wide and insecure in spite of himself, is nothing short of tooth-rottingly _sweet_.

”I did this expecting nothing in return.” He says then, letting go of Will's hands to rub his thumb over the younger man's cheek in an affectionate gesture. ”That you enjoyed it is enough for me.” 

The younger man never shies away from Hannibal's violence. No matter what Hannibal does to him during their moments of intimacy, Will never says a word of protest. Hannibal thinks that, deep down, Will wants to hurt, if he thinks that's what Hannibal wants. Years ago, when he stabbed him with a linoleum knife in his kitchen, the younger man only leaned in to his touch; trembling hands seeking leverage and stability in Hannibal's arms as he shook with pain, blood pooling beneath his feet. There was no anger, no resentment to be found in his face, in the dark hollows of his eyes that shone bright with heartbreak. He wanted to hurt, _still_ wants to hurt in one way or another, even if his knowledge of this is limited to a subconscious level. This is perhaps the only aspect of Will that is truly predictable. Hannibal always suspected that he would not accept his kindness as easily as his cruelty.

As Will's hands slowly come to rest in his lap, Hannibal pulls the younger man's underwear up again, zipping up his pants and buckling his belt before buttoning his shirt back up. Will remains fixed on the spot, docile and quiet, letting Hannibal dress him like a doll.

 

*

 

Will doesn't understand the sharp twists and turns of Hannibal's affection. Or rather, the twists and turns of the way his affection manifests. He has difficulty assessing what exactly called for this sudden tenderness, but considering it's Hannibal, it could be anything, could mean anything. Whatever it is, Will likes it better when the other man’s blunt nails dig crescents into his skin, teeth denting his supple flesh as he takes what he wants from his body without much regard of Will's comfort. Ironically, it's somehow more equal that way. When Hannibal fucks him, hard and fast, grunting with the effort as his face contorts in pleasure, Will feels like he's peeking behind the blinders, looking through the keyhole of one of his locked doors; as if he's allowed a glimpse of something recklessly _human_ Hannibal won't reveal under any other circumstances. 

Well, perhaps it isn't _human_ per se, the way he tears into Will, pinning him underneath the considerable weight of his muscled form and holding him in place with punishing force, as if the younger man plotted escape. But at least it isn't detached, indifferent or calculating. At least it's something real, something true. 

Point is, it isn't fair that he should get to remain calm and collected while Will falls apart.

That is why Will reaches down underneath the covers when they're in bed later that night, stroking Hannibal until he hardens beneath his touch. Encouraged by a series of sleepy hums of approval, he sits up to climb between Hannibal's legs, jerking him off with slow, firm movements of his hand while doing all those things he used to enjoy when girls did to him; trailing soft kisses over his hips and abdomen, caressing his thigh with his free hand. As he does, he is struck by the realization that the stubble on his cheeks might chafe, that his calloused hands aren't as soft as a woman's might be. He quickly blots the idea out of his mind, choosing to ignore the way it makes his face heat up with embarrassment. He has never done this before, never thought much about it. Not even with Hannibal. But he figures that now is as good a time as any to try.

”Will,” Hannibal suddenly cautions, putting a hand on Will's head just as he's leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses to the blunt head of his cock. The way he says his name and the way his hand rests firmly on the top of his head is the complete opposite of encouraging. ”I told you that you don't have to do anything for me in return.”

Will looks up, ceasing his ministrations as something uncomfortable and thorny settles in the pit of his stomach.

”Yeah, I know that, but-” He crinkles his nose, trying to sort out his thoughts. ”Why won't you let me suck you off? I mean, with some practice, I'm sure I'd be good at it. I'm used to shoving things down my throat, you know, with the-” He holds two fingers to his mouth and jokingly pretends to vomit. Hannibal frowns, disapproval slowly twisting his even facial features. Strangely, this reaction only serves to spur Will on. It's reminiscent of the feeling he used to get when he'd deliberately overstep his bounds, talking back to figures of authority as a kid – the thrill of knowing he is doing something wrong.

”Come on, haven't you ever thought about fucking my mouth?” Will practically purrs, sucking in his bottom lip between his teeth as he reaches down to start stroking him again, letting his free hand roam over the skin stretched taut over his abs. ”Just sliding all the way down my throat, making me choke on your big dick. I'd let you come in my mouth, on my face, or anywhere you want-”

Hannibal grabs a handful of his hair, jerking his head up with a force Will finally recognizes. He inwardly breathes a sigh of relief for reasons he can't quite explain, but it's cut short as the older man shoves him down on his back, hand still nestled in his hair.

”Why won't you allow me the satisfaction of granting you pleasure without reciprocity?” He asks, voice still raspy with sleep or arousal or maybe both. The tight grip on his hair makes Will whine – appreciative, in spite of himself. ”I shouldn't have to do this in order for you to listen. Why won't you accept my kindness as unconditionally as this?”

Will doesn't have a good answer for that. Really, he hadn't thought much about it at all, and he doesn't particularly feel like doing it either. So he says nothing, remaining on his back, perfectly still in the older man's clutches. Hannibal sighs, easing the grip on his hair slightly, but still not letting go.

”I only ask of you to let me care for your well-being.” Hannibal says in a hushed tone. ”In every way that I can.”

”I do. I mean, you are.” Will says, trying to figure out what exactly it is that the older man wants to hear. He could have said _I don't care about my well-being, I'll take anything you give me_ , or, if he dared to be honest, _I don't even know what's good for me anymore, but you always had a way of knowing it for me_. In the end, he says none of these things, because he isn't sure he's ready to put it out there for Hannibal to hear, isn't ready to ponder the implications of these statements, should they be true.

 

*

 

One morning as they are having breakfast, Hannibal announces that he intends to start working again, setting up a private practice in their home. Will is not surprised, as he figured it was only a matter of time. His taken identity is that of a therapist, after all, and he never expected Hannibal to be the kind of man to remain unemployed for an extended period of time. Will stole his identity from a teacher, yet he doubts he will pick up where the unfortunately deceased man left off – he doesn't crave routines the way Hannibal does.

”I do miss it, being a practicing psychiatrist.” Hannibal says, taking a sip of his coffee. ”And I miss its many benefits and opportunities.”

Will scoffs, giving Hannibal an incredulous look.

”You're sick of picking our victims through news reports, is what you're saying.” He counters, a wry smile etched across his face.

”I am not a vigilante.” The older man says in response, seemingly undeterred. ”Do you feel that you need our victims to be bad people?” 

”No.” Will downs his cup of coffee, enjoying the warmth spreading in his stomach. ”You know, I kind of miss your old place. More history to it. And as far as home offices go, it was pretty impressive.” 

”You miss being my patient.”

Will absent-mindedly taps the wooden table with his fingers, making a knocking sound.

”I was never your patient. You did take the liberty of treating me as one though, and if you don't mind me saying so, I wasn't very satisfied with my care.”

”To be fair, it was more for me than it was for you.” Hannibal stands up, clearing the table of their empty cups and plates, pressing a fleeting kiss to the top of Will's head as he piles his plate on top of his own. ”This will be good for us, Will. You'll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man did I feel guilty writing all that down, poor Will. Here's to hoping my imagination treats you better in the future. I have some ideas for a continuation, but idk we'll see where it goes, if it'll even go any further than this.
> 
> Also, "fruit like honey to the throat but poison in the blood" is taken from Christina Rossetti's poem Goblin Market - I unfortunately didn't come up with it.


	4. Sed Non Satiata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You always push too hard, Hannibal. Remember, your toys have a tendency to break.”_
> 
> _”I don't consider it necessarily detrimental.” Hannibal is quick to reply. ”Some of them break beautifully.”_
> 
> Like you, _he doesn't say, because he doesn't need to._  
>   
>  Hannibal starts up his new private practice, bringing forth new patients and new kills. One of them stands out, for all the wrong or all the right reasons.

 

Dressed in a tailored three-piece suit in a muted shade of Prussian blue, the tasteful simplicity of it accentuated by a finely woven paisley tie peeking out from underneath a plain waistcoat. Skin contrasting against the rich cream of a crisply ironed shirt, collar neat and starched around his neck. Cufflinks, polished shoes and lips curved in a pleasant smile. Hannibal plays this part so well, having perfected it for years; the role of the good doctor. Nothing so simple as a wolf in sheep's clothing, but a wolf in the clothes of a shepherd – luring innocent prey out of the safety of their pen, leading them astray into his gaping maws. Will used to think that this was merely an act, hands itching to tear this treacherous disguise apart to reveal the true Hannibal Lecter lurking underneath. But he isn't so sure anymore. Hannibal seems altogether too comfortable in the skin of this mild-mannered psychiatrist, his gentle smiles as genuine as the words of reassurance leaving his lips. Will has come to suspect that Hannibal is _always_ himself, merely accentuating different aspects of who he is depending on what he is attempting to achieve. 

”What do you think?” Hannibal asks as Will walks through the door to their study turned home office, looking around the room to take in the recent changes. Hannibal has spent the last few weeks redecorating in order to create a suitable environment for his practice, suddenly having assorted trinkets and furniture delivered to their house. Will is oblivious as to where Hannibal gets enough money to make these sort of luxurious purchases, but he is not about to ask, rather remaining ignorant of the other man's questionable methods of getting by.

”Brings back memories.” Will says wryly as he takes a seat in one of the armchairs intended for patients, gaze roaming across the unfamiliar rows of books tucked neatly into the shelves lining the wall. ”Though the view is different from where I'm sitting now.”

Hannibal takes a seat in the armchair across from him, assuming the position he would usually be in when he acted the part of Will's unofficial psychiatrist.

”In many ways, we are back where we started.” The older man says, smiling. ”Through the looking glass. Time did not reverse, it merely looped. Where does that leave our shattered teacup?”

Will's studies him quietly, fingers tapping his thigh thoughtfully.

”How often did you think about killing me when I was sitting here?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow. ”I assume the thought crossed your mind.”

Hannibal's smile broadens ever so slightly.

”If memory serves, I believe _you_ were more inclined to imagine such scenarios.” He says evenly. ”How often did you think about killing me?”

”About as often as I thought about fucking you.” 

It isn't quite true; Will's thoughts at the time were dripping with saturated red, echoing with the satisfying, wet crack of bones. He did, however, entertain the thought of what he'd have to do to wipe that infuriating look of cold detachment off of Hannibal's face, what would make him truly come undone.

”Is that so?” Hannibal raises his eyebrows in disbelief, an amused tone to his voice. ”That would be news to me.”

Will stands up then, walking over to where Hannibal is sitting with slow, deliberate steps. He puts his hands on the armrests of his chair, boxing the other man in with his arms, looming above him.

”I asked you first.” Will reminds him, almost chastising; capturing the other man's wandering gaze. ”Tell me. How often, Hannibal?”

The older man regards him quietly, attentive eyes searching his for something to hold on to.

”A great danger of residing at the top of the food chain is growing oblivious to the idea that someone might pose a threat to you.” He says after a moment's consideration, delving into some abstract metaphor as per usual when Will cuts too close to the bone. ”Imagine the precarious situation of being an apex predator stalking prey, only to realize that it was, in fact, targeting you too all along. What would you do?”

Will hums to himself in an act of exaggerated contemplation, pretending to think long and hard on his question while moving to sit astride Hannibal's lap, knees coming to rest on either side of his thighs. The leather upholstery creaks as his weight settles on top of the older man, and a rush of excitement surges through him. The idea of doing something like this in the civility of Hannibal's office feels almost forbidden, like swearing in church or coughing during a minute of silence.

”I'd pounce first.” He finally says in response, shifting slightly on the older man's lap. Hannibal's eyes flutter closed for a brief second, breath catching in his throat.

”Yes.” He agrees, voice a gentle rasp as he reaches out to brush Will's hair out of his eyes, fingers tracing the line of his jaw with solemn reverence. ”Keeping that in mind, I imagined killing you many times.”

Will's lips twists into a grin, the skin around his eyes crinkling.

”And how did that make you feel, Dr. Lecter?”

A moment of heavy silence.

”Conflicted.” 

Affectionate tenderness softens the dark depths of his gaze. Will rather possessively likes to think that this Hannibal is reserved for him and _only_ him, the humanity flickering past his eyes a privilege he has earned; the scars strewn across his skin testament to his resilience. He dips down to press his mouth against Hannibal's, lips moving slowly against his with intent.

”I want you to fuck me here.” He says in a level voice, opening his eyes to look at the older man. ”When you're sitting here with a patient, I want your mind to wander, thinking about it. I want you to remember what you are when it's just the two of us, and worry about whether they can see it in your face.”

In regard to their sexual intimacy, _what_ is more important than _who_. Hannibal grasps Will's face with both hands, holding him in place as he drags his gaze across his features before closing his eyes and breathing him in; capturing the vague sweetness to his heady scent, letting it sit on his palate like the aroma of an expensive wine before breathing it out. Then he presses his mouth against Will's, parting his soft lips with firm strokes of his tongue. A muffled groan is wrenched from the younger man's throat and he reaches in between them to run his hand over the bulge on the front of Hannibal's pristine dress pants, almost shuddering when the tips of his fingers make out the contours of his hard cock. Hannibal releases a hum of approval as Will starts fumbling with the clasp of his pants, the soft drone of his voice turning into a staccato when the younger man wraps a hand around his length.

”Tell me you want to fuck me.” Will demands, stroking him languidly. ”You have to say it.”

There is a distinct note of petulance to his voice, a bitter sharpness to this borderline petty command, but Hannibal's eyes are glazed over with suppressed desire, all pupil as he looks up at him.

”I want to fuck you.” He rumbles, gaze fixed onto Will's eyes. The word sounds strange in Hannibal's voice, his mouth seemingly unwilling to conform to the way its sharp edges press against his teeth. Will bites back a moan as it goes straight to his cock, making it twitch and strain against the fabric of his boxers. He hurriedly unbuttons his own pants, scooting them down his thighs only as far as he needs to along with his underwear. Then he takes a hold of Hannibal's wrist, bringing his right hand to his lips to suck two of his fingers into his mouth. Hannibal merely watches him work his digits down to the knuckles, transfixed; pupils dilating like wet ink bleeding onto paper. Once Will lets them pop out of his mouth, wet and glistening with saliva, Hannibal reaches around to rub the younger man's tight opening, relishing in the way his eyebrows knit together when one of his fingers breaches him. 

”Shit,” Will's hisses, breath hitching in his throat as Hannibal's finger is joined by another, gentle but determined motions stretching him. He grinds against the other man's digits, swiveling his hips to meet the movements of his hand.

”More, Hannibal, come on.” Will really should allow himself this considerate, thorough preparation, should not grow impatient at the rough, weatherworn fingers working him open and slick, sending sparks of bliss through his body each time they brush against his prostate, but he doesn't _want_ this from Hannibal, _needs_ the prickling pain scurrying along his spine when Hannibal crushes him against his broad frame, making him ache and burn, mind reduced to a blank slate. ”Just- _fuck me_ , now, _please_.”

And then, before Will has a chance to properly grasp the progression of events, he is maneuvered onto his knees where Hannibal was just seated, hands scrambling to support the weight of his torso hanging halfway draped over the chair. Hannibal's breathing is audibly labored as he positions himself behind him, running his hands along his flanks before pressing a firm hand to his lumbar. Will obediently curves his back and Hannibal can't help his sharp intake of breath, because it is simply _beautiful_ , the way his neck flushes pink, skin prickling beneath his touch. He is seized by an urge to tear away the sweater – a ratty old thing in a distasteful shade of brown-speckled moss green that _he_ certainly has not purchased – sullying the image of perfection spread out before him. He settles for pulling it up with a spiteful yank and bunching it up in his hand, using it as leverage as he starts pressing inside the tight heat between Will's legs, eyes fixed on the exquisite slope of his back.

The younger man makes a strangled sort of whining sound at the intrusion, instinctively trying to recoil, only to find that he's locked into place by Hannibal's grip on his sweater and his own pants pooling around his knees. Hannibal groans softly as he's fully sheathed inside him, and Will hisses as he starts moving his hips. The angle makes Hannibal feel big, _too big_ , inside him, and his knees are already sore, chafing uncomfortably against the leather surface as he's being rocked back and forth. The vague pain associated with being fucked like this reminds Will of pressing his thumbs into fading bruises or picking at a scab that is just a little bit too fresh, satisfying yet teetering on the flip side of pleasure. When the other man reaches between his legs to stroke him, the jolt of pleasure shooting through his body almost makes him slump down, mind momentarily going blank.

”God, Hannibal,” Will says these words like they're interchangeable, bracing himself as the other man thrusts deeper and harder inside him. Hannibal's hand is warm and firm, working his shaft with unyielding determination, thumb gently rubbing the head of his cock.

”I'll come if you don't stop,” He manages to choke out through gritted teeth, but Hannibal is undeterred, letting Will slide back and forth in the tunnel of his hand in time with his thrusts.

”I thought you wanted to leave me with a memory to make my mind wander.” His voice is scratchy like nails on skin, and his accent, made more distinct by his distracted state of mind, makes the vowels sit heavy on his tongue. Warm excitement surges through Will, making him tense up, and then Hannibal rumbles a command that registers in his body before his mind:

”Come.”

Will releases a trembling breath, the coiling pleasure in his gut unwinding, emptying his head of all conscious thought. His body feels heavy, legs almost giving out beneath him as his head is swimming with the haze of his orgasm. As if he can tell, Hannibal loops one arm around his stomach, holding him upright in a tight grip as he sets a _brutal_ pace, fucking Will so hard that his breath is repeatedly knocked out of his lungs with the impact of his thrusts, making breathy, undignified noises slip past his lips. It hurts, a dull ache settling at the base of his spine as Hannibal crushes him against his clothed chest, rutting into him like a wild animal, and Will so, _so_ wishes he could see the other man's face, desperate to know what moves around in his eyes. But before he can even finish that thought, Hannibal's thrusting becomes erratic, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as he buries himself deep into the younger man and comes.

When he pulls out, it's the gentle way Hannibal pulls his sweater back down again that lets Will know that the good doctor has returned. As he turns his head to look at Hannibal, he discovers that he has already begun cleaning himself up with the help of a nearby tissue box, tucking himself back in his pants. His neat attire hardly even seems rumpled. Will quickly pulls his underwear and pants back up, wincing at the way he already feels sore, boxers sticking to him as a trickle of wetness runs down the inside of his thigh. He wills his body to move, wobbly legs struggling to keep him upright as he stands.

”I shall have to tend to that before my first appointment tomorrow morning.” Hannibal says, almost succeeding in keeping the predatory glint out of his eyes as he casts a glance toward the mess Will made on the armchair. Then he turns to the younger man, smiling gently. ”You can't be comfortable like that. Let's get you cleaned up.”

 

*

 

Once Hannibal's practice is up and running, many opportunities present themselves. Yet not every lamb in the good doctor's pen is led astray. Hannibal and Will merely pour their ambition into a select few, sometimes only using them as gateways to other potential victims in an attempt to minimize the risk of getting caught. Killing is, however, always risky, always a fickle wheel of fortune, no matter the extent of their caution. The local police force has yet to tie all their kills to a single profile, as their MO is always changing, consistently taking new shape and form. Still, the news reports have hinted at a possible connection between some of their more extravagant kills, suggesting that the police has begun piecing together a serial killer profile. Will's stomach churns when he hears about it. He sometimes forgets this may not last forever, that the time may come when he won't wake up next to Hannibal, tangled in his warm, heavy limbs, when Hannibal's hands on him will be but a memory. Those surgeon's hands, steady and meticulous, yet _much_ too worn for a white-collar worker; tanned and rough, the skin draped across his knuckles tough like leather to the touch. Hands possessing brute strength, used to tearing apart and cracking open, deceitfully gentle as they slide across the soap-slick skin of Will's back in the shower, the calloused pads of his fingertips trailing down his spine, water running pink with blood beneath their feet. 

At some point, it will all inevitably end.

(He imagines them being sent to different facilities, separated, isolated from each other, imagines Hannibal being put on death row while he is locked away in a dark corner of some destitute madhouse, because Hannibal is already _Hannibal the Cannibal_ to the world, an unspecified monster they once thought they could keep contained, and much like a rabid dog he will surely be put to death this time around. But Will, Will is only known as the mentally unstable special agent who got too close. Will Graham, the crazy one, Will Graham, the victim; manipulated and exploited and _used-_

Will's father isn't dead. 

Surely not for a lack of trying; Will always suspected that the drinking and the smoking and the working his fingers to the bone were a way of speeding up his own demise. Will imagines, however, that fathering the man who caught the Chesapeake Ripper only to share his bed would be enough for his old dad to finally swallow his rifle and finish the job.)

 

*

 

She is a very perceptive young woman.

There is something decidedly sharp to the Persian blue of her eyes when she tilts her head up to meet Hannibal's gaze, sitting stiffly in the armchair across from him; back straight and her hands folded in her lap. Hannibal is amused to find that she seems to be analyzing him as much as he's analyzing her during their sessions, gaze scrutinizing and suspicious. He can practically see the thought process in her head, observing a note of apprehension to her voice when she speaks, as if she knows to be wary of him. She has that edge to her that abused girls often have. A hardness to mask her softness, eyes that are steely and wounded at the same time. Never once has she attempted to hide the scars and fresh cuts adorning her wrists, trailing all the way up her arms, wearing them as naturally as a favorite sweater. Hannibal likes that about her, for a wide array of different reasons.

”You engage in harmful behavior because the pain is familiar.” Hannibal suggests as they are half an hour into their appointment, discussing her self-harm. ”Repeating the emotional patterns of pain, shame and guilt associated with your former stepfather's abuse has become a comfort to you. You know how to deal with these feelings, whereas feelings of sadness or anger that are arising now that he is no longer part of your life feel new and harder to deal with.”

She stiffens even further as the word _stepfather_ leaves his lips. Hannibal makes a mental note not to phrase it like that again. She slowly twists her head to look out the window, seeming far away.

”I'm not sad.” She informs him, voice flat.

”Angry, then?” Hannibal inquires. ”Do you feel angry, Adèle?”

Her jaw clenches almost unnoticeably. Then she nods curtly, only once.

”Have you tried acting out?” Hannibal asks.

”What do you mean, acting out?” There is a quiet sense of authority to her that Hannibal finds delightfully unexpected; she doesn't ask questions, she demands answers. From the moment she first walked into his office, she has carried herself with an entitled sort of dignity that forcefully demands his full attention.

”Well, sometimes one might feel compelled to lash out, acting on the feelings of aggression associated with trauma. Something as simple as slamming a door. Breaking a plate, or just screaming. Something that directs your feelings of frustration out into the world.”

She is quiet for some time, pursing her lips as she considers Hannibal's words.

”I don't think my mom would approve of me destroying things around the house, Dr. Marlow.”

”Things are replacable.” Hannibal glances toward the jumbled lines of bright red and faded white on her bare wrists. ”Daughters, not so much.”

Hannibal finds that he genuinly wants to help her. Moreover, he is curious where this sizzling rage might take her if she utilized it instead of turning it toward her person in useless macerating. There is potential to her, something intriguing about the waves of fury pressing against the floodgates of her self-restraint. Slamming doors and breaking plates is an appropriate first step, he thinks to himself, but the final one is bound to be a fatal one.

 

*

 

Hannibal knows all too well what buttons to push when he involves Will in his new project, offering detailed descriptions of how she suffered physical and psychological abuse at the hands of her stepfather, from a very young age until quite recently as her mother finally cut ties with him. He emphasizes the way he would use violence and threats of it to control her, isolating her from her peers, effectively cutting her off from everything that was not _him_. He thinks that Will might relate to that, and is rewarded with a twitch of his eye, confirming his suspicions.

”What are you doing to her?” Will finally interrupts, arms crossed over his chest and voice cautioning, like a disapproving parent. ”How far are you pushing her?”

He doesn't really need to ask. But it's the ritual of it; symbolic opposition.

”I would have thought you'd agree that it might be theraputic for her to even out the scores, so to speak.” Hannibal says. ”No matter the extent of my influence, I can only do so much. If it is not feasible for her to work through her anger is such a manner, time will undoubtedly tell.”

Will snorts.

”Right.” He rubs his temple with one hand, pointedly not meeting his gaze. ”You always push too hard, Hannibal. Remember, your toys have a tendency to break.”

”I don't consider it necessarily detrimental.” Hannibal is quick to reply. ”Some of them break beautifully.”

 _Like you_ , he doesn't say, because he doesn't need to.

 

*

 

When her arms are no longer speckled with fresh lines of red as she sits down across from him for her appointments, Hannibal knows that the final step is close. She is still stiff, bordering on motionless before him, but her eyes are no longer equal parts steel and bleeding wounds, the hard edge to them solidifying, taking shape. 

”Let's talk about your mother's ex husband.” He says halfway into their session. ”How do you feel when you think about him?”

She is quiet for some time. It is not unusual for her; she is prone to taking long pauses before speaking, carefully weighing her words before letting go of them.

”I used to feel like hurting myself.” She finally says. ”Now I- don't.”

There is a slight pause there. Why, he can't be sure, not yet. Hannibal leans forward, resting his elbows on top of his thighs.

”What is it that you feel now, Adèle?”

She meets his gaze.

”I want to hurt him.”

No pause. Hannibal can barely hold back a smile.

”And would you, given the opportunity?”

She narrows her eyes, remaining quiet for so long that Hannibal almost repeats his question. But then she leans forward as he had done, studying him with intense scrutiny, eyes raking across his face.

”Would _you_ , Dr. Marlow?”

 _Very_ perceptive, indeed. Well, he did want to help this young woman, after all.

 

*

 

It's a cruel and not at all subtle trick of fate that her name begins with an A. That is what Will thinks to himself as Hannibal introduces him to a young woman with stern eyes and stiff demeanor, hard-edged yet brittle enough that Will's heart wrenches with recognition in his chest. He is struck by an image of dark, braided hair, deep hollows beneath a gloomy set of eyes. His eyes? No, his eyes were never that shade of cornflower blue, framed by long spider leg lashes, but _her_ eyes - 

Her eyes were. Yes, of course.

”Thomas, this is Adèle.” Hannibal says, snapping him back to the present. He blinks, realizing that this girl in front of him looks nothing like his dead almost-daughter, tall and lanky with sharp features and hair the color of wet sand. Still the metallic taste of blood floods his mouth, the memory of Abigail's quivering bottom lip hitting him like a punch to the gut. ”Adèle, this is my colleague, Mr. Hyde.”

The young woman stretches out a hand to greet Will. Her handshake is firm, but it's deliberate; a conscious effort rather than something innate.

”Your colleague, huh.” She says in broken English, an eyebrow sceptically quirked as she glances at Hannibal. ”Nice to meet you, Mr. Hyde.”

”Thomas is fine.” Will offers her his taken first name, releasing her hand. ”Nice to meet you too, Adèle.”

When the three of them sit down to have dinner, the food tastes like absolutely nothing in his mouth, reduced to mere textures and temperatures. He purposely avoids glancing down at his plate, afraid that the tender meat he stabs his fork into might turn into a tough, sinewy ear just to spite him. Everything about this familiar scene feels like mockery, like Hannibal deliberately trying to hurt him, but he isn't self-centered enough to truly believe it's as simple as that.

”Thomas and I have been discussing your situation, Adèle.” Hannibal says matter-of-factly, looking at her. ”Although it breaches doctor-patient confidentiality, I hope you don't mind that I shared with him the details of your dilemma. It was necessary in order for him to grasp what we are dealing with.”

”I don't mind.” Her smile is wry, lopsided. ”Penny for your thoughts then, Thomas?”

She says his name very deliberately with a strange sort of emphasis. From the moment he met her, Will has had an eery feeling that she somehow sees through them both.

”Why don't you begin with telling me what you hope to get out of this?” He says, voice surprisingly steady. What exactly _this_ is he leaves unsaid, not only because he himself isn't exactly sure, but because he wants her to fill in the blanks. She is quiet for a long time before offering a reply, gaze lingering somewhere past Will's ear.

”I want you to understand that this man is a vermin infestation to me.” She finally says, jaw tight, words thick on her tongue. ”And I'm sick of the way it's spreading through my basement, eating its way up to my house. I figured this” - she won't assign an explicit meaning to _this_ either, treating it like a clearly defined condition - ”would help me finally rid myself of him.”

Will nods, sucking in his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down.

”It isn't revenge, merely self-preservation.” He suggests. And she doesn't smile, but her facial features soften; she doesn't need to tell him that he's right.

”I stand by my previous claims that it would be therapeutic for you to handle this matter yourself, Adèle.” Hannibal cuts in. ”Having it done for you might be temporarily fulfilling, but that sense of relief might fade away, turning into something else entirely.”

Adèle tightens her lips, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. Will fixes Hannibal with a look, trying to tell him to remain quiet when he obviously doesn't know what he's talking about, in many ways too wrapped up in his own inclinations to truly _understand_ the point of view of someone else.

”I don't know if I have the means of compensating you for the trouble.” Adèle says in response, completely ignoring Hannibal's remark in favor of practical concerns. ”I wouldn't know what kind of money is custom in these sort of exchanges.”

”We don't require any compensation of that kind.” Hannibal asserts firmly. ”We are not hitmen.”

She smiles faintly, face growing a little pale. 

”I'm sure I can't begin to imagine what you are.” She says. ”And I don't need to know. I just consider myself fortunate to have come across assistance.”

Will thinks to himself that she should stop to consider what it is these strange men sitting across from her _do_ require as compensation if monetary payment is out of the question. She is old enough to know that there is no such thing as a free meal. Something unpleasant stirs in the pit of his stomach, telling him Hannibal has gotten her just desperate enough not to care, willing to surrender to whatever it is that they demand in return; but even Will doesn't know yet, isn't sure what their objective is in involving themselves in this mess. There is a slight tremor to his hands as he cuts the food in front of him into little pieces, still stubbornly refusing to look down at his plate.

 

*

 

When they kill him, they do it quickly. As a man of habit and routine, it was not hard to pin down an appropriate time and place. Will insists that they handle him like Adèle suggested, like mere vermin – bothersome, but not worthy of too much time or effort. They sneak into his house as he's at work and set up a noose, then it's easy enough to make his murder look like a suicide. It doesn't even make it on to the news.

 

*

 

Once Adèle finds out, sitting by their dinner table yet again, she is deathly still for a moment, body rigid and tense. Then she releases a long, shaky exhale, and a string of wet sobs wrack her body – tension melting off of her as she starts crying. Will immediately gets up from where he's sitting, hesitating only for a moment before he wraps his arms around her. She clings to his shirt, burying her face in his chest as he pulls her closer, holding her in a gentle embrace. Hannibal sighs inwardly. If she were only a few years younger, she could have been a fitting addition to their lives; an appropriate gift for Will in lieu of his lost surrogate daughter. Hannibal has never seriously considered having a child, but as he came to discover when Abigail was alive, Will is obviously more in touch with his paternal instinct. Wanting to dress her wounds, take her fishing; her comfort and happiness his sole objective. Hannibal would mostly be interested in exercising his influence over a young, impressionable mind, lacking the same uncomplicated sentiments.

”We will resume your therapy, of course.” Hannibal says, making his voice soft as he turns to Adèle, still seeking refuge in the safety of Will's arms. ”To deal with the consequences of these recent developments.”

Really, it's more for their sake than hers; Hannibal needs to keep tabs on what she might be thinking, whether a guilty conscience will get the better of her or not. They took a dangerous risk, indeed, involving themselves in her personal vendetta in this manner. Involving other people is always a risk, as people are fickle, prone to change and new assessments.

”Thank you.” Is all Adèle says.

Hannibal knows that he may have to kill her. 

Hannibal knows, deep down, that he eventually _will_ kill her.

 

*

 

”How is Adèle holding up?” Will asks one day as they're in the kitchen, doing the dishes together. Hannibal can tell he's trying to sound casual, but there's a note of hope there. Hannibal decides to be candid, not giving him unecessary hope.

”She seems relieved that he is dead, for the most part. But even though she will not outright admit it, I can tell that she is plagued by a guilty conscience.”

It is perhaps a simplification; Adèle has, for the most part, seemed conflicted. It is just as bad as a guilty conscience, however, seeing as that makes her unpredictable. Her eyes are heavy with grief and she doesn't cry, but her voice is thick as she speaks. Once Hannibal has offered his assessment, Will spends a little too long drying a plate, rubbing it almost tenderly with the kitchen towel.

”She is a liability, Will.” Hannibal charges his voice, making sure the implications of his words come through to the younger man.

”Yes, I got that.” He says, muttering, piling the plate almost aggressively on top of the others. There is something deeply heartbroken in his voice, despite his gruff mumbling. Hannibal will not dig deeper. He knows through ample experience how Will reacts to being probed when he's like this. Hannibal imagines that he has already mentally replaced Abigail with Adèle, projecting tentative hopes onto the blank slate of this young woman he barely even knows.

”I intend to settle this matter myself, Will. You needn't be there.” 

”No, I'll be there.” Will says, determined. He will always go to great lengths to punish himself, no doubt feeling guilty despite none of this being his fault. Hannibal imagines him to feel helpless, perhaps even weak; he was unable to save this girl as well, couldn't reach far enough to snatch her from Hannibal's jaws.

 

*

 

In the end, Will is the one to do it. Holding Adèle's waist in a firm grip from behind, he slits her throat in the dim light of their kitchen, unhesitant and mercifully quick. As they are soaked in the current of her blood, he carefully lowers himself to the floor, still holding her in his arms. He leans against the fridge, stroking her hair with trembling hands, hushing her gently as her eyes slowly lose their bright luster; becoming dull and waxen. They are both shaking violently, for different reasons entirely, looking like frightened children seeking comfort in each other's embrace. 

Once Adèle has stilled, Hannibal puts a hand on Will's quivering shoulder to snap him back to reality. His head jerks up and he stares wildly at Hannibal with an almost feral look in his eyes before blinking, slowly coming back to himself. He wordlessly untangles his body from Adèle's, carefully setting her to lean against the fridge, then he follows Hannibal's lead to gather their supplies, getting ready to clean up and take care of her body.

(The trembling moment before Will set the knife to her throat, he'd whispered something in her ear. Hannibal couldn't make it out, and when he inquires, Will only gives him a quizzical look. _Wouldn't you like to know_ , is all he says in response, glaring at Hannibal with inky, wounded eyes as they wrap up her body in plastic to put her in the trunk of their car.)

 

*

 

When Hannibal was a young man, he would often ponder the existence of God. Attempting to assume the dreary perspective of such a bleak creature, he often tried to view the world from its abstract eyes, imagining it to be an enormous, elaborate machine of his own making; cogs turning in intricate patterns. A slaughterhouse littered with unsuspecting pigs in cramped little pens, blissfully unaware of their part in the bigger scheme, only realizing the absurdity of their situation once the machine unhinged its cavernous jaws to devour them. Human logic has always been unable to comprehend the method to God's madness. Inclined to favor goodness, people are repulsed at the notion of God eating his own children, gorged on their brittle bones and inane suffering.

Hannibal has no such qualms.

”When Baudelaire composed _Les Fleurs du Mal_ , he was inspired by the sublime.” Hannibal explains as they put the finishing touches on Adèle's corpse, bringing their shared vision to life through the cold, stiff clay of her dead body. ”While beauty is certainly an innate component of the sublime, it is generally conceived as a radically different aesthetic experience. Sublime beauty occurs when one is faced with something equal parts astounding and intimidating, beautiful and terrible, creating a sort of negative pleasure.” 

”Negative pleasure.” Will repeats to himself, taking a step back to review the result of their work. ”Bringing attention to the paradoxal nature of existence itself. Man longs for redemption, while tempted by the compelling allure of sin. Redemption and downfall, one can not exist without the other, and more often than not, it's simultaneous.”

”Neatly symbolized by the sublime beauty of evil flowers.” Hannibal smiles, something akin to pride flickering by in his eyes. ”Very good.”

Will offers a hollow grimace of a smile.

”I did my recommended reading.”

Silence falls between them as they look down on Adèle's corpse, outstretched on the soft moss of the forest floor, eyes closed and pale skin contrasting against the dark green. Her naked body is partially obscured by elaborate arrangements of deadly nightshade, hyacinth and lilacs, none of which flourish in these woods at this time of year, which makes the scenery appear organic and artificial at the same time. The flurry of purple flowers bring out the lavender of her drained lips, the outlines of blue veins stretching across her eyelids like cobweb. Will always found that cadavers look nothing like living human beings. Adèle's pristine body rather reminds him of a doll; like a child passing through happened to drop it to the ground, abandoning it in the forest. In a few days, the body will, however, begin to rot, proving its humanity. He closes his eyes to imagine the way the sun will spill yellow light over marble skin, stretched taut over a bloated stomach. A tangled mess of hair like a halo around her swollen face. Maggots and insects breaking down the delicate tissue, merging the body with the earth as the flowers wilt and wither along with her. He is somehow relieved at this thought; the idea of her becoming one with the world.

 

*

 

”Would you have honored Abigail's body in the same way?” Hannibal asks as he is driving them back home, eyes flitting from the narrow dirt road to Will, sitting quietly in the passenger seat with his eyes closed. Will only sighs, shifting in his seat, not opening his eyes.

”I consider it a testament to them both. What I would have done doesn't matter anymore.”

”It was a fitting tribute.” Hannibal truly means that. ”Did you feel closure, killing Adèle as you saw me kill Abigail? Did you put her ghost to rest?”

As Will opens his eyes to look out the window, his eyes are met with a world submerged in deep blue darkness, reminding him of a deep sea water landscape. He can vaguely make out the dark silhouette of trees looming above him, mournful and glum against the backdrop of a sky devoid of stars. Everything feels surreal, like a liminal space, the bumpy dirt road stretching out before them like a treadmill. A never-ending loop, only leading back to where he started. A trail of dead, could-have-been daughters in his tracks. Will screws his eyes shut again and crushes the idea like a bug between his fingers, flicking it away.

”No.” He says, voice strangely mechanical. ”I'm sure you'll never allow me closure, Hannibal.”

When Will rests his head against the cold surface of the window and pretends to sleep, Hannibal doesn't call his bluff. Once they pull up to their house, Hannibal further indulges him by gently squeezing his shoulder, letting him know in his softest voice that they're home. His touch is feather-light, just the barest amount of pressure, as if he isn't sure whether he is allowed to touch him or not. _Good_ , Will thinks to himself and sleeps on the couch for a full week, evading all physical contact to really hammer it home.

(The moment he decides that Hannibal has been sufficiently punished, he's just about to set the table while the older man is busy preparing dinner. He casually puts a hand on the small of Hannibal's back while reaching for a plate on a high shelf, and Hannibal practically _drops_ the knife in his hand, tensing up as he draws a trembling breath. His eyes are flooded with something so genuinely grateful that Will for a brief moment finds him _pathetic_ , which feels unreal in itself, but it's truly pitiful enough that he would forgive him anything just for that look on his face alone.)

 

*

 

Fall fades into winter, flakes of cotton ball snow falling from the sky and wrapping their surroundings in pristine white. Will always favored the stirring liveliness of spring and slow decay of autumn, unimpressed by the extremities of summer and winter – scorching sun or biting frost, either too hot or to cold. Yet each season has its charm; he enjoys ice fishing, hunting. Taking long walks in the mornings, watching the sun color the sky pink as the snowy ground creaks gently beneath his feet, the unforgiving cold clearing his thoughts and making him feel awake. He enjoys the stagnant serenity of nature, the way everything appears to delve into deep slumber.

Hannibal never really favored the outdoors, but he will sometimes join Will as he is out hunting or fishing, with a thermos of coffee and a far too elegant snack prepared. And so he tags along when Will decides to ease his cabin fever through a day of carefully planned hunting as a week-long snow storm has just passed. Will is mildly amused at the way Hannibal's normally clear-cut silhouette is compromised by layers of wool and tightly woven fabrics; much like Will, he is bundled up a zip-front fur-hooded parka, wearing boots that could have belonged to any regular blue-collar worker. Hannibal is never truly out of his element, but this is a close call.

”Hunting after a storm is beneficial since deer are bound to be on the move.” Will explains to Hannibal as he is lying in wait in the hunting blind he set up earlier that morning, his rifle a heavy comfort in his hands. ”They are forced to seek shelter during storms, and once it's over, their survival instinct urges them to track down food sources. Which makes them an easy target, for obvious reasons. They practically fall into your lap, if you know where to look.”

As charmed as Hannibal is by Will's expertise in this area, he is even more captivated by the younger man's sudden confidence. The never-wavering focus in his eyes, his usually unreliable hands - wrung dry by nervous fidgeting - suddenly steady as he's holding the rifle in a firm grip, his finger resting against the trigger without so much as a tremor.

”And how do you know where to look?”

”I use the target's greatest strength to my advantage.” Will says. ”Deer choose everything from bedding areas and travel routes to feeding destinations based on wind direction. Knowing this, you can predict where they might be coming through. Wind direction also dictates whether or not they catch _your_ scent. You need to position yourself out of their noses' reach, only then can you slip by undetected, hiding in plain sight.”

Will falls silent, ears almost seeming to perk up as he detects a rustle somewhere in the vast field of white, catching a glimpse of the subject of their discussion in the scope of his rifle. He slowly stands up, grip tightening on his gun, and Hannibal watches in utter fascination as his finger slowly squeezes the trigger. A loud, echoing bang fills the silence and Will's body moves fluidly with the recoil, gaze still unwavering. As he walks out of the blind with Hannibal in tow, the corners of his mouth turn up in a triumphant smile. They follow a trail of blood staining the snowy ground until they spot a mature buck, deathly still on the forest floor, shot right through its massive skull. 

Once they have managed to complete the daunting task of hauling the buck to their camp, Will cuts into it with practiced ease, field dressing it with Hannibal's assistance. Once this is done, they finally take a well-deserved break, sitting down to have lunch.

”I'm impressed.” Hannibal compliments him, taking a sip of steaming hot coffee. ”You are a very skilled hunter.”

”Well, so are you.” Will says, affording him a crooked smile. ”It's much the same, really. All about knowing your prey, thinking one step ahead.” He pauses. ”But you knew that already.”

As silence settles between them, Will takes in the great, white landscape surrounding him. It seems vast and never-ending, the silence imposing to the extent where it's almost _hostile_. When he came here this morning, he had an uncanny feeling of being an intruder. Then he felt the weight of his rifle on his back and remembered that he belongs here. That _they_ belong here. Among prey, among other predators. Not that anyone else would know, with the way Hannibal pours coffee into neat, matching mugs, gathering crumpled plastic wrap and used tissues in a bag to sort and throw away later; so _terrifyingly_ civilized for someone so savage.

Will briefly wonders, as he so often does these days, what would happen if he just ran.

”I would catch you.” 

Will is startled at hearing Hannibal reply, not even aware that he'd said anything out loud. But he can't say that he is too surprised – it isn't the first time his own body betrays him, tongue loose and reckless in Hannibal's presence. 

”Would you now.” Will says in response, voice atonal. The older man is looking at him with slightly narrowed eyes, as if he's trying to assess the mood, pondering what to make of Will's musings.

”Yes.” Hannibal says flatly. ”Trust that I would always catch you.”

Something stirs in Will.

”I guess we'll just have to see about that.” He says as he stands up slowly, warily eyeing the older man as he takes a few tentative steps back. Hannibal rises too, slowly picking up on where their exchange is taking them. Will casts a quick glance to his side, trying to calculate his course of action. Hannibal is stronger than him, all bulky muscle and unwavering resilience, but Will knows this area better, is more quick on his feet. If he were to steer off into the thicker parts of the woods, he could probably navigate the low-hanging branches and irregular surfaces of the ground better than the other man. He looks back at Hannibal, lips stretching into a wolfish grin.

”Will you give me a head start?”

Hannibal isn't smiling, but his eyes are soft, the usual impenetrable coldness cracked like the hard surface of an icy lake being warmed by the first rays of spring sun. There is a sharp glint to them too, one that Will is very familiar with; the alert gaze of a predator, a shark smelling blood.

”No.”

At that, Will turns on his heel and _runs_ , sprinting as fast as he can until he is swallowed up by the forest of barren trees. He can hear Hannibal's steps right behind him, snow crunching beneath his feet, and feels his heart beating wildly with anticipation and something he might identify as misplaced – but none the less tangible – _fear_. His racing pulse is thumping loud enough in his ears that it drowns out the sound of all else, but he can feel the other man stalking him like an ominous shadow. A hand reaches out, grasping for him, but it only manages to tear the beanie off of his head. Cold wind whips at Will's bare ears and then, the collar of his jacket is snatched up in a firm hand and he is pulled back, dragged down to the ground. His breath is knocked out of his lungs as he lands on his back, soon pinned down beneath the weight of his captor.

”Got you.” Hannibal growls as he captures the younger man's wrists in his hands, slamming them down onto the ground to pin him into place. A winded laugh breaks away from Will's throat, then he gathers saliva to the front of his mouth with his tongue and spits Hannibal right between the eyes. Taking advantage of the utter _shock_ it instills in the other man, he lifts himself off the ground and maneuvers Hannibal to his back so that their roles are reversed.

”No, I got _you_.” Will chuckles as spit dribbles down the other man's forehead, amused by the way indignation is fighting shock and confusion on Hannibal's face. His triumph is, however, cut short as he's violently tossed to the side, wrestled into submission once more as the other man sits astride him. Once Will is secured to the spot, Hannibal releases his grip on one of his wrists to backhand him across the face; a swift, disciplinary whack that makes Will yelp in surprise more than pain, head snapping to the side. He immediately stills, feeling like a misbehaved pet being scolded by its master. Then, before he has time to think about what he's doing, he swings his freed left hand, landing a solid punch to Hannibal's jaw. 

The older man hisses in pain as the blow makes his teeth pierce the sensitive skin of his bottom lip, and while he is regaining his composure, Will squirms out from under him – crawling away on his stomach with his gloved hands clawing at the ground in an attempt to gain leverage. Hannibal feels a low rumble of discontent build in his throat as he reaches forward, clamping down a hand on Will's ankle to drag him back. 

Will's heart jumps up in his throat and his stomach churns with a combination of excitement and bright panic, making him cry out in distress. As he writhes and thrashes, desperately trying to break free from the man attempting to lock his arms behind his back, a teetering giggle tears away from his throat – slowly building up to a hysterical bout of uncontrollable cackling.

”Alright, I'm sorry,” He shouts, practically howling with laughter, kicking his legs violently. ”You got me, I'm sorry, really, I'm-”

Hannibal grabs a handful of the tousled curls at the back of his neck, pressing the side of his face down into the snowy ground in an attempt to subdue him. Will gasps as the coldness hits him, but he can't seem to stop laughing, his shoulders shaking with muffled giggling. 

”I mean it, Hannibal,” He pleads, lips still twisted in a parody of a smile. ”You got me, I'm sorry.”

Hannibal is still trying to rid himself of the sudden flare of indignation pulsing in his veins, gnashing his teeth as blood drips from his lip, staining the pristine field of white stretched out on the ground. Will sees it too, twisting his head as much as Hannibal's grip allows to catch a glimpse of the drops of crimson in the snow.

”I'll kiss it better.” Will offers, his hoarse voice betraying no remorse. Hannibal merely snarls in response, jerking Will's head up only to slam it back down into the snow again. He cries out in pain and Hannibal swiftly dunks his face into the ground three more times as penalty for his insolence before releasing his grip on his hair, climbing off of him and standing up with only slightly wavering steps. The younger man groans meekly, untwisting his arms as he tries to stand. Hannibal silently berates himself for the way the dazed expression on Will's reddened face, marked by his hand and the biting cold, tugs on his heart strings. Then he offers him a hand, pulling him up to his feet.

”Impudent boy.” Hannibal mutters, stroking the wet strands of hair sticking to Will's cheek out of his face. The younger man staggers, stifling a chuckle as he gets a closer look at Hannibal's split lip. Blood is smudged over his swollen mouth, smeared across his chin where it's trickled down. His temples glisten with beads of sweat and exertion has colored his cheeks rosy.

”You look like shit.” Will remarks, still grinning as he wraps his arms around Hannibal's neck. Then he nudges his lips against the other man's before pressing a soft kiss to his busted lip, relishing in the feverish warmth and throbbing flesh. His blood tastes like metal, like something familiar and comforting, and he closes his eyes, releasing a humming sound of approval. Hannibal winces in pain at the pressure, but doesn't pull away – anger slowly rolling off of him as Will melts into his arms.

 

*

 

Hannibal sees himself in God. 

Will knows that he does. And he in turn made an idol out of Hannibal years ago, becoming all at once his prophet and apostle, martyr and sacrificial lamb; knees scrubbed raw from worship, wordless prayers dying on his lips as he put himself on the altar time and time again to appease him. Will sees God in Hannibal, and he isn't merely an idol anymore. He poured his devotion into a hollow figure only to find divinity thrumming beneath the surface, his praise revealing glowing darkness.

”You are watching me sleep.” 

Even balancing on the edge of unconsciousness with his eyes closed, Hannibal somehow catches Will staring. His voice is throaty and rough; a low rumble reminding Will of distant thunder, thick like honey on his tongue. Will has, indeed, been lying awake for what feels like hours, just watching the steady rise and fall of Hannibal's chest, imagining the way his lungs expand with each deep breath. His hair is mussed, falling into his eyes, and his mouth is still a bit swollen from the impact of Will's blow.

”Well, I was.” Will mumbles in a gruff voice, reaching out to brush the hair out of Hannibal's eyes. ”You're awake now.”

Hannibal leans into his touch, pressing his face against the palm of his hand with a pleased hum that almost sounds like a purr. It makes Will's heart feel heavy and warm and he snuggles closer, cradling his hands to his chest as he lets Hannibal wrap his arms around him, fitting their bodies together like puzzle pieces.

”It's not even morning yet.” Hannibal murmurs against the top of his head, the buzz of his odd accent a little more pronounced as he is just barely awake. ”Are you having trouble sleeping?”

”Just thinking about stuff.” Will mumbles into the hollow of Hannibal's neck, knowing he'll know what that means without further elaboration. A hand snakes into the snarl of Will's curls, fingers carefully untangling the knots. Hannibal has made a habit out of brushing through his hair like this, as much for Will's sake as his own; he suspects that Hannibal is comforted by the notion of straightening him out, turning him into something soft and manageable for him to run his fingers through.

(Hannibal is truly unable to wrap his head around the idea that it may be deeply unfulfilling to get exactly what one wants.)

”Contrary to popular belief, guilt and shame are not interchangeable.” The older man rumbles, eyes still closed. ”It is sometimes said that guilt is feeling bad about your actions, while shame is feeling bad about who you are as a person.”

”I don't feel either of those things.”

”Nor should you. But the prospect of remaining unburdened by these feelings bothers you.”

He really can't argue with that. Hannibal sighs softly, carding through soft strands of hair.

”If you must, allow yourself the comfort of believing that this means something. Guilt only serves to needlessly torture you and shame will inevitably render you passive.” Hannibal says. ”In time, you will realize that you need not seek absolution, because we operate beyond petty man-made concepts of morality.”

It's important that Hannibal uses the word _beyond_ rather than _above_. Will burrows into the crook of Hannibal's neck, wedging his head in between his shoulder and his cheek like a wounded animal crawling into a hollow in the ground, one hand resting on the older man's firm chest. Will can feel the slow beat of his heart against his palm, steady and relentless like a metronome, and as he runs a finger down his sternum he imagines cracking his chest open and finding a swinging pendulum beneath his ribs.

(Because Will sees himself in Hannibal, both of them made of the same glowing darkness, the same milk and honey; creatures of never-ending hunger, starved Gods soaking the thirsty soil with the blood of pigs scurried away in the slaughterhouse of the earth.)

When Will finally falls asleep, a faint smile is softening his face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so bad at this notes thing, but I'd just like to take a moment to thank you guys for leaving kudos and comments! I really am ridiculously excited about every single one of them, and it lets me know if I'm doing things right, so please don't be shy.
> 
> (but if you don't like it pls be gentle as publishing things is super scary and I make this vague mildly alarming screeching sound every time I hit the post button) 
> 
> Anyway conclusion: thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!


	5. Vive Memor Leti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _”I don't know you.” Will said quietly, almost surprised at his own words._
> 
> _“Yes, you do.” Hannibal assured him, reaching out to place a tentative hand on Will's stomach, where he left that grimacing scar. He ran his thumb along the jagged edges, stretching from hip to hip, and Will shivered despite the layer of clothing separating them. “You and I know each other intimately. I have been inside you. You have been inside me too.”_
> 
> Will and Hannibal look back at the strange time following Will's attempt at double suicide, when the nature of their relationship was still uncertain and they had yet to move to Avignon together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already written about this scenario in a previous fic, but obviously I hadn't gotten it out of my system since I still wanted to do another take on it in the context of this specific story, so. I did the thing and here's the thing.
> 
> Before reading: heed the tags! I decided to err on the side of caution and add **mildly dubious consent** , even though there is verbal consent. Alcohol abuse and general messy feelings complicate matters enough that I thought I should tag it, if only to be safe.
> 
> Well, that should be all. Hope you like it!

 

In his dreams, he's still falling.

It would have been the perfect end to their story. The two of them entangled on the ocean floor, submerged in cold darkness. No bodies to be found, only their first and final act of conjoined brutality: The Dragon on his back, stripped of his wings. For a long time, Will mourned the loss of this perfect end, unable to cope with the way they were extending into an epilogue he never intended for there to be.

But then, there wasn't much to do. Considering. 

 

*

 

Stars. Spots of bright white shone against the backdrop of a deep blue canvas as his eyes slowly blinked open. A dark figure loomed above him, draping across the sky like a veil. Stretching and expanding until its massive form extinguished the light of the stars, like blood staining cloth. Like The Dragon's drooping wings spreading across the concrete. No, not like that, that was before. His thoughts were jumbled, tripping over each other in the haze of his clouded mind. There was a vague, distant sense of numbness, his blood running slow and thick like molasses through his veins, and he thought he could hear the sloshing of water in his ears. Or was it in his head? Will could remember falling, but he couldn't remember the impact, couldn't remember the cold depths swallowing him up. Why couldn't he move? 

His muddled thoughts were interrupted as some semblance of sensory reception suddenly roared to life, causing excruciating _agony_ to shoot through his stiff form, punching what little air he was able to sustain right out of his lungs. His throat burned and his lungs ached and pain seared through his right shoulder, sizzled along the side of his face in sickening waves. Through the blinding pain, he could see that figure of darkness leaning closer, reaching for him, and he closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, thinking he’d finally be – 

whisked away, or something like that. Because surely this was Death. Only it couldn't be, because it spoke in a familiar voice as it enveloped him, submerging him in dry warmth. He recognized that gentle rasp from his dreams, but the words made no sense to him, seeming too far away and much too close at the same time. It brought tears to his eyes, or at least he thinks so, and he tried to say something, _anything_ , tried to make his lips move around the words lodged in his throat.

( _Let me die, please, please, just let me die-_ ) 

But he was merely hushed, comforted by the faceless voice whispering into the slope of his neck. He vaguely recalls the sense of misery that settled in his gut as he realized the dry, warm embrace was nothing like the dark depths he chose as his final resting place, but he must have lost consciousness right in the middle of that emotional turmoil, as his recollections come to an abrupt halt; the sense of dread lingering in his head unresolved.

 

*

 

When Will regained consciousness, he was propped up against a stack of pillows on a narrow bed, swaddled in blankets. For a blissful second, he had no recollection of who he was or what chain of events had led him to where he was resting, but then the memory of teetering on the brink of death crashed over him along with everything else, making his head positively spin. Something pulled strangely at his skin and once his vision came into focus, he realized Hannibal was stitching him up, brow drawn in concentration. The harsh daylight flooding the room – whose room was this? – was positively blinding, making his head throb with a splitting headache.

“Where... am I?” Will mumbled, voice nothing but a dry husk.

“Someplace safe.” Hannibal assured him, voice equally rough. Will still isn't sure whether he was still hallucinating or not, but he could have sworn Hannibal's face was stained by fresh spurts of blood, spots of bright red standing out against the migraine-induced whiteness surrounding him.

 

*

 

The first conversation that Will was coherent and remembers with clarity:

“I was supposed to die.” His voice was gravelly and rough and he was too tired to snap, too tired to fill his voice with every bit of bitter disappointment that he harbored, but he locked eyes with Hannibal hoping he could see it on his face. “I was hypothermic. Right? I should have died back on that shoreline.” 

“For some reason or another, we were not given death when you anticipated it.” Hannibal said, an unexpected sharpness to his voice. “I survived. And I never claimed to be anything but selfish. I couldn't very well let you die when I could help it.”

It dawned on Will what that meant. The implications of surviving. The impact of his realization almost had him light-headed, and at once, his eyes burned with tears, body trembling to the point where he was almost convulsing, his stomach turning with a violent bout of nausea. Hannibal reached out for him, but Will instinctively cringed, the heels of his naked feet – how horribly _vulnerable_ that made him feel, being exposed like that, knowing Hannibal must have undressed him while he was unconscious – pressing into the soft mattress as he scrambled to get away.

”Don't- I can’t, don’t touch me, please.” He pleaded, trying to blink back tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “Where are we? How did we even get here? You were _shot_ , Hannibal.”

“I was lucky. The bullet passed through muscle, never entering the abdominal cavity.” Hannibal said in a detached voice, as if it didn’t concern his own form. “Nothing requiring surgery, and the same is true for your injuries. We are unfortunately rather close to where we washed up, perhaps four miles from the shore. I thought it foolish to pass up on the opportunity when I spotted this cabin.” 

The blood on his face, if it had ever been there at all. 

“This place wasn’t empty when you found it, was it?” Will asked with a building sense of dread, already knowing the answer to his own question.

“No.” Hannibal said. “But there was an axe in the tool shed.”

Will swallowed, closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he let those overwhelming, inexplicable feelings he scarcely even had a name for wash over him like a tidal wave. He felt the bed shift as Hannibal slowly stood again, could sense the way the air was cluttered up with words the other man wished to say. He wanted to yell at him to get the fuck _out_ or at the very least keep those useless words from quivering on the tip of his tongue, but then he finally heard the unmistakable sound of shuffling feet.

“You should rest,” Hannibal’s voice was gentle, lowered to an almost apologetic murmur. “I will be right outside, if there is anything you need.”

The air was still heavy with words unspoken once he’d left.

 

*

 

Hannibal’s doors. Even then, Will was feeling the handles, glancing behind the ones that opened and testing the lock on the ones that didn't, peeking through keyholes and wandering lost in the vast corridors of his mind. Seeing Hannibal lumbering around, stoically and rather pitifully resisting a tendency to limp while Will was in the same room, was nothing short of jarring. There was a sudden rawness to him, something soft and almost demure that chafed and sagged at the same time, like an ill-fitting shirt. Will often caught himself thinking that Hannibal didn’t seem like himself, then he realized that maybe he didn't know who he was in a situation like this, couldn't exist as Hannibal Lecter when he was holed up in an unknown cabin removed from society wearing clothes that smelled of fisherman and scotch, cheeks becoming rough with stubble. 

 

*

 

Hannibal _desperately_ wanted to know why Will did it, wanted to know exactly what moved around in his head when he tipped them over the bluff, but the younger man seemed intent on not speaking to him, hardly even looking his way, jaw wired tightly shut as he grudgingly allowed Hannibal to tend to his wounds and prepare him small meals that were often left half-eaten. He really did not do much besides sit and stare those first few days, lost in thought processes Hannibal had no hope of being granted a glimpse of.

A week into their stay, Will found an assortment of cheap, bottom-shelf scotch sitting in the pantry. Without so much as a word, he unscrewed the cap off of one of the plastic bottles, thumped down on the couch and added drinking to his usual repertoire of sitting and staring. Hannibal said nothing, only pried the empty bottles out of Will’s limp hands at the end of each day, gently guiding him to lie on the couch to sleep. Will would only whine softly at the loss, reaching instinctively for the useless plastic while Hannibal draped a blanket over him, offering a soothing word or two to placate him. Only in this disheveled state did Will seem to allow his tentative words of comfort to console him. Hannibal was sure he had no memory of them the day after, and perhaps that was the point.

 

*

 

Logically, there should not be any resemblance whatsoever between Hannibal's deceased little sister and the scruffy scrap of a man he set his designs on all those years ago, so often reeking of liquor and musty old laundry, cheeks rough with unkempt stubble. While Mischa had been a lively toddler, round cheeks flushing pink and healthy, Will is just breaching his thirties. And he definitely looks it; pale skin just starting to lose its youthful luster, sleep deprivation having carved deep hollows beneath his eyes. Still. There is something. As far as Hannibal is concerned, there has always been something. A daunting similarity in the way Will hangs his head, letting his shaggy hair fall over his face as if it might protect him from harm. In the way he retracts within himself, like prey making itself impassive in the eyes of external threat. In the way he used to look at Hannibal as if he were the only one he trusted to pick him up and put him back together, because Will actually did look at him like that at one point; like Hannibal was his anchor, a safe shore for him to wash upon.

Bedelia once suggested that Will stirred the same tenderness in him as Mischa did. The psychiatrist in Hannibal was inclined to agree, although the extent of his concession was limited to an intellectual, somewhat detached level. He didn't actually think much about it, perhaps due to stubborn, subconscious effort, perhaps because there wasn't a strong enough resemblance for him to connect the dots. The memory of his sister has always been lodged somewhere much more primal, stored within taste and sensation. Hannibal remembers with his mouth, and the moment he first _kissed_ Will –

 _That_ is when it came crashing down, emerging to the forefront of his mind like blood rushing to the surface of bruised skin. It was all there, that subtle trace of lingering fear in his mouth, something charred and corrosive and feral, turning him acrid and sour; like dead leaves and spoiled meat. He thought to himself, _have you always been like this, is this the weight of your abilities?_ But he didn't ask, and he never would, already knowing the answer would be a resounding yes.

”I want to kiss you, Dr. Lecter.” Will had slurred in the sleepy, syrupy drawls of his Louisiana accent, staggering and swaying on the spot, drunk on the fifth of scotch that forcefully demanded his full attention since the moment he woke up that afternoon. Hannibal would have considered the use of his title condescending if he was not already aware of the fact that Will often lost track of their shared timeline when he was inebriated, confused by the way they had gone back and forth between first and last name basis. He was just about to walk out the front door to get some mundane chore done, but Will's poorly concealed request made him stop dead in his tracks, wondering for a brief second if he had misheard him.

”You may.” He finally said in reply, turning around, only to find Will looking at him with bleak eyes, blood-shot and dry, the dim blue of his irises eclipsed by dilated pupils. He was only wearing a pair of large sweatpants he found stashed away in a drawer, and they hung low on his hips, revealing the outlines of defined hip bones, creamy skin draped snugly over their sharp angles. The look on his face verged on hostile; he always looked so _accusing_ back then, glaring at Hannibal with his lips drawn into a tight line. 

Before Hannibal had time to feel disheartened by the gloomy set of eyes staring him down, Will closed the distance between them, leaning heavy against his frame as his arms wrapped around his neck. Will’s skin felt clammy and hot as he clumsily pressed their lips together, and the older man's eyes fluttered closed as he allowed himself the comfort of imagining that this took place in simpler times, where Will was not drunk to the point of disorientation, looking at him like a caged animal eyeing its captor. It was enough of a consolation that Hannibal couldn't help but tangle a hand in his unruly mop of hair, nudging those soft lips open, sliding his tongue inside his mouth and _then –_

_Mischa._

The wet sound of a dull blade splitting skin, cutting through the soft bone of a child's skull. A steel-capped boot stomping down on her frail little ribcage for leverage to pull out the axe wedged half-way in her head. Hannibal's lips closing around the chipped wood of a spoon and one of those men flashing a predatory smile with too many teeth as he swallowed automatically, _gratefully_ , around the mouthful, despite _knowing_ what it was. He knew it in his mouth and in his bones and in the empty hollows of his eight year old frame where she used to be, but he kept forcing the thought out of his mind, reptilian brain chanting eat, sleep, repeat, _survive_ – 

He almost gagged and his disgust must have shown on his face because Will suddenly stopped, confused, eyes wide and bright with hurt. But then his face contorted into a scowl and he backed Hannibal up against the door, kissing him aggressively, pinning him in place with crushing force. At first Hannibal couldn't decide whether to pull away or lean in to that scotch-bitter mouth, tasting so nauseatingly familiar underneath the sharp tang of alcohol, but then Will grabbed his cheek and wedged a thumb inside the corner of his mouth to pry it open, and he could do nothing but give in to the violent collision, only realizing that he was _painfully_ hard once the sharp edge of Will's hip brushed against him.

(Will's grip left a string of bruises along the line of his jaw, deep purples and bright yellows melding into each other like a Rorschach on skin canvas. For days Hannibal would press the tips of his fingers into them, reveling in the memory of Will's soft mouth, raw and visceral to the point that he may as well have cut him open, carved a Y shaped incision from shoulder to shoulder, all the way down the white expanse of his stomach and submerged his hands in warm, slick organs, felt the frantic beat of that rabbit heart in the palm of his hand.)

Hannibal was taught a mortifying lesson in humility then, as he actually _came_ like that. Bucking up against Will while groaning raggedly, neck flushing red and his stomach sticky with remnants of pleasure. He must have looked ridiculous; wearing a tattered old jumper along with holed jeans, a trucker hat pushed down on his head, panting and blushing like a teenager while pressed up awkwardly against a man twenty years his junior.

It's very unusual for Hannibal to feel vulnerable. 

Will simply released his hold of him and looked him over once with a vacant expression on his face. Then he turned around and walked away with wavering steps, crashing down on the couch in the cramped living room space while reaching for his almost empty bottle of scotch. Nursing it to his chest as if it were his last precious drops of water in a dried out desert.

(That _horrible_ blank expression on his face, that was Mischa too.)

 

*

 

At the time, Will took a lot of baths. Since then, he has not taken a single one.

If he wasn't drinking or sleeping, he was lying unmoving in the rusty tub crammed into the corner of the bathroom, immersed in lukewarm water, staring at the filthy tile and dreaming about being dead. Hannibal kept giving him that look of silent disapproval, reminding him of the risks of soaking his wounds for hours on end, but what good was recovery on a corpse? Will had decided the moment he woke up in the quaint bedroom of the unfamiliar cabin that he wouldn't live to move beyond it, and he grew more anxious each day he lived, realizing it took him further from the comfort of death.

He just couldn't- _shouldn’t_ try again, because that wasn't the _point_ , the idea was to take Hannibal with him in the literal and figurative fall, obliterating them both in one devastating act of determination. This was not at all what he had wanted for them when he took them over that bluff.

The water was freezing. Will opened his eyes and blinked experimentally, only to find he was submerged in pitch darkness. When he got into the tub that afternoon, he hadn't bothered turning on the lights since the room was brightened by daylight. Now, it was dark enough that his eyes were straining to make out the faint contours of his surroundings, the murky dark of night having seeped in while he drifted off. He squeezed his eyes shut again and stubbornly remained where he was until the water finally grew cold enough that he started shivering. Then he reluctantly got up and toweled himself off. Put the same filthy clothes on, because this was not about being _clean_ , it was about being _dead_ and since death evaded him, he settled for the bare minimum of cognizant existence. 

Once he got out of the bathroom, Hannibal was, infuriatingly enough, waiting for him on the couch. No, _Will's_ couch, because he had claimed it as territory at that point, giving up the bedroom to Hannibal. A first aid kit was sitting on his lap.

”Let me change your bandages.” Hannibal said, a note of softness to his voice. It had the corner of Will’s mouth twitch in annoyance. ”I need to see if there is any risk of infection.”

”No.” Will said flatly in response. ”Move.”

Hannibal frowned, but made no effort to get up from where he was seated. He looked sad and old in his knitted sweater, not at all like the man Will knew him to be.

“Fine.” Will sighed, sitting down next to the other man with a fair amount of distance between them. Hannibal immediately got to work, unwrapping the wet gauze from his shoulder with reverence and anticipation, as if was a sorely awaited gift to himself. _There's the you I know_ , Will had thought to himself then, strangely relieved.

As Hannibal tended to his wounds, Will shot a tentative glance his way. A collection of fading bruises in the shape of his fingertips lined the older man's jaw, setting off a flare of guilt in his gut. In the haze of his drunken stupor, he had thought that kissing Hannibal might resolve something, that it would bring order to the fractured thoughts in his head. Instead he came away with new questions to be answered, most of which related to why Hannibal had physically recoiled as if Will had struck him. He wasn't sure what he anticipated, but it wasn't the reaction of a wounded dog. And Will had – 

Will isn't a cruel man. Is he? Maybe he was then, in the oppressive confines of those specific four walls. Because if not outright cruel, it ought to at least be considered a violation of personal boundaries, the way he forced himself on Hannibal without regard of the way his body tensed and trembled like piano string pulled taut.

But Hannibal was supposed to want it. Will never stopped to consider a scenario in which he didn’t.

”I-” Will cut himself off, wetting his dry, chapped lips. Hannibal's gaze turned toward him.

”What is it, Will?”

Will, Will, Will. Hannibal always had that habit of saying his name excessively, consonants thick on his tongue due to his accent. Will realized that he had never heard him speak Lithuanian, had no clue what Hannibal was like when he allowed himself to slip into the familiarity of his mother tongue. There were so many things he didn't know.

”I don't know you.” Will said quietly, almost surprised at his own words. Hannibal's eyebrows pinched together minutely.

“Yes, you do.” He assured him, reaching out to place a tentative hand on Will's stomach, where he left that grimacing scar. He ran his thumb along the jagged edges, stretching from hip to hip, and Will shivered despite the layer of clothing separating them. “You and I know each other intimately. I have been inside you. You have been inside me too.”

Will shook his head, swallowing around a lump in his throat.

“I-I've fumbled around in the mind of The Chesapeake Ripper. I know your _kills_ , Hannibal.”

Honestly, he wasn't really sure he knew those either. He _still_ isn't all that certain that he knows the other man's kills nearly as intimately as Hannibal thinks he does. Will has a fair amount of experience – even before he was recruited by the FBI, he used to be a homicide detective. And neatly framed in his messy office is a doctorate diploma, proving his PhD in criminal psychology. 

(Will is young, no more than a meager 31, but ever since he left the murky backwaters of the place he reluctantly calls home, he has worked hard and he has made something out of himself, and now he can look back at that wide-eyed wisp of a boy he barely recognizes as himself with the satisfaction of knowing he got out. His adult self, his educated, accomplished self who has spent the majority of his adolescence carefully peeling the remnants of Louisiana off his skin, knows that there is a word for this that is currently eluding him.)

But Hannibal always evaded categorization. Even with Will's extraordinary gift, he is unable to look at his murders and truly see him.

”That is me.” Hannibal said, voice unbearably soft. ”Surely you do not need me to tell you that.”

Tears gathered at the corners of Will's eyes then, blurring his vision and wetting his cheeks, because Hannibal really _meant_ it. Really, truly meant it, and the prospect of those mutilated bodies being all that there was to Hannibal, that he only existed in pain and destruction and sharp, gleaming edges of linoleum knifes, was terrifying. Heartbreaking, even, considering.

Considering.

“I want you to fuck me.” Will blurted before his train of thoughts caught up enough to stop him. In spite of the tight knot in his throat, his voice was surprisingly steady, one of his hands tentatively grasping the handle of a door that may actually matter. Because Will had been staring at after images of the other man for too long, seen the places where Hannibal became Hannibal, seen the impact of those places in the dim eyes of corpses he left behind. But murders are open to interpretation, windows into probabilities, while touch is immediate, intimate, revealing. 

The thumb running along the line of his scar stilled.

“I mean-” Will cut himself off again, trying to curb an onslaught of panic that stirred in his form as the reality of his request sunk in. “I need you to do it to _me_ you, know. Not, uh- not the other way around.”

 _To_ as opposed to _with_. If it weren't for the lurching nausea turning the contents of Hannibal's stomach, he would have pointed out the way Will treated the prospect of physical intimacy as a punishment to endure. But his breath was stuck in his throat and he felt like vomiting because there it was, right that moment, the violent urge to break or obliterate or consume – after all those years, he still had not learned the difference – sticking to the roof of his mouth like wet paint. It occurred to him, as if for the first time, just how breakable Will was, all soft skin and supple flesh and bones brittle enough that he could snap his neck like a twig, make it click like a cocking gun or a locking door, tear him apart limb from limb until he was nothing but a deconstructed mess in his hands. Until he couldn't look at him like that, eyes wet and dark like the ocean they crawled out of, wide with fear and unwavering _trust_. Just like –

 _No_.

“May I ask why?” Hannibal choked out, mentally clicking his heal to get his thoughts in line, acutely aware of Will's tense stomach beneath his fingers. 

“No.” Will said simply. Then he cocked a strange sort of smile that was probably meant to be disarming, but he caught himself half-way through, resulting in an awkward grimace. “But you don't have to kiss me, if you don't want to.”

Hannibal wanted to. He was, in fact, unable to recall _ever_ wanting anything more in his adult life, which was mildly disconcerting in itself – the intensity of this need catching him slightly off-guard. But since Will gave himself over so freely, he cradled the younger man’s face in his hands and ignored the hesitation flickering past his wet eyes in favor of pressing their lips together in a soft kiss. There was a tense moment where Will’s body was seized by a freeze response, that prey-like instinct of his telling him to suffer assault belly-down, unmoving in the claws of a predator, but then Hannibal slid his tongue over closed lips and Will opened his mouth, kissing him back, slowly and surprisingly responsive. Hannibal wanted to burn the taste of his mouth into his memory and scrape it off his tongue at the same time, head spinning with images of blonde wisps of hair stuck to the blood-stained blade of an axe.

“Bed,” Will mumbled gruffly as if it were a complete sentence, pushing Hannibal away with a firm hand. Hannibal recognized that command, the same alpha male flick of the wrist Will would employ to assert his dominance over his pack of dogs. He did not appreciate the parallel, still he trailed close behind Will as he made his way into the bedroom. 

 

*

 

Ènouement. That was the word. The bittersweet notion of having arrived in the future, finally knowing what unfolded in the chapters of life previously unknown. Flat on his back in the process of betraying everything his former self had believed in, this sensation creeped up his spine. He imagined walking up to his teenage self, head hung in shame, to tell him about the mess his life was to become. How he'd graduate at the top of his class only to immediately fold under the pressure of being a homicide detective. Teach at the academy only to be roped into becoming a special agent. Sacrifice his mental health to help, only to end up _here_.

As Hannibal pried Will’s knees apart with a force suggesting he was unaware of or unconcerned about his own strength – and wasn’t that a disturbing prospect, such a crucial distinction – Will was briefly reminded of the ghost stories he'd been told as a child, the ones whispered into his ears as he was cornered by a group of mean-spirited classmates on a school trip. Round, buck-toothed little faces pressing close to his, illuminated by flashlights as they shared stories of dark figures stalking the night, tapping on bedroom windows, politely asking for permission to come inside. And once they were invited – well. 

As much as Will resented his gun when he was in the force, he kind of wished he had it. He didn't trust that mouth bearing down on him, because doing so would be naïve, if not straight-up foolish, and the sheer reverence in Hannibal's gaze made him uneasy. As if touching him was a religious experience, his body the equivalent of holy grounds. Being familiar with Hannibal's views on religion, it was no surprise that he tore into him as if he tried to debase him.

(But there was something else there too, in the way Hannibal held his breath as Will ran a hand down his stomach, a little bit soft just above the waistline of his pants, rounded from age. In the way he grunted softly next to Will's ear, hands mapping out the landscape of his form, running up and down his arms, flanks, thighs, as if he was trying to make sure that Will was truly there, flesh and blood, no empty phantasm conjured up in his memory palace.)

 

*

 

“Why?” Hannibal asked later that night as Will sat curled up on the couch drinking, always drinking, sipping pensively from a crinkly bottle of scotch in silence.

“Guess I was looking for something.” 

_What was it_ , Hannibal desperately wanted to ask, but instead:

“Did you find it?”

“I don't know.” Will mused, putting the bottle down on the table. Hannibal grew to detest that sound, the scraping of plastic against wood that was always followed by a susurration to Will's speech, his elongated vowels drifting into honeyed lilts that were unfamiliar to him. “Maybe next time.”

Next time. Hannibal was unused to playing games he himself had not devised and the prospect of not being familiar with the rules to this one made him uneasy. He wasn't sure about Will's objective, because while Hannibal had these inclinations toward him, he never had any reason to believe they were mutual. And perhaps they weren’t; not once when they kissed did Will close his eyes, stubbornly looking at Hannibal through thick, dark lashes, gaze wary and doubtful.

“Did you enjoy it?” Hannibal asked then, a trace of urgency to his voice that Will unfortunately picked up on. ”Whether you ask it from me or not, I don't wish to cause you any harm, Will.”

Will laughed then, loud and startling like a gunshot, a completely humorless thing that cut through the silence like a sharpened knife.

“I guess I'll just have to mark you down for a terrible liar. But you're a decent fuck, I guess, if one is into that kind of thing.”

 _Aren't you_ , Hannibal didn’t ask, remembering the way Will arched his back as Hannibal snarled monosyllabic words of assertion into the hollow of his collar bone, each word lining up with the rhythmic snap of his hips.

(You are _mine_.)

To this day, the memory makes him wince. Not that Hannibal is in any way opposed to the baseness of physical needs, because he isn't and he never has been, some tightly wired part of his brain singularly occupied with the idea of pinning down and claiming and _marking_ his possessions with any means possible. Assuming that those urges were ever predominant in his fixation with Will would, however, be a grave misunderstanding. Hannibal wants Will because he _does_ know him, has known him for longer than he is even aware; from the moment he picked apart the girl Hannibal left for him on the field, intended as a test as well as an invitation, a bloodied gift pierced by antlers.

Moreover, Hannibal wants Will because Will understands him. Knowing and understanding may not be tantamount to condoning, but Will is still able to see what he sees and that has taken them all the way to where Will has clung to his arm drenched in the blood of a common enemy, to where he has looked upon that blood and deemed it beautiful. 

( _Mine_ , Hannibal had snarled into the sharp angle of Will's jaw, only moderately surprised to find that he meant it, one hand clamped around that frail, breakable neck. _Hurts_ , Will mouthed in response and Hannibal agreed, squeezing until Will's eyes widened and his mouth fell open: a freeze-frame shot of a mute scream. Hannibal is not a sadist, truly, but he has come to learn that he can be many things that are often in opposition when it concerns Will Graham.)

“You’ve wanted this,” Will rasped once Hannibal eased his grip, cheeks tinted red and eyes glazed over, chest rising and falling as he sucked in deep, greedy breaths. “Haven’t you?”

“Yes.” Hannibal saw no reason to lie.

“How did that make you feel, huh?” Will wheezed, likely in an attempt to laugh. “Wanting someone who fucking hated you?” His voice was curiously lacking scorn in spite of his hurtful words. “I bet you jacked off thinking about me these last three years. Holed up like a lab rat in that glass box they kept you in, surveillance cameras and all. You’re pathetic. Just a sad, lonely old man.” 

Hannibal does not lose control. And he didn’t, but he may as well have, hands drenched in phantom blood as he slung a forearm over Will’s stomach to pin him in place, head echoing with the whisper of old, breaking bones. 

“Ngh- fuck, _Hannibal_ ,” Will bit down on his name as if he was trying to crush it between his teeth and Hannibal heard himself growl in response like a dumb animal, fingers buried within the tight heat between his legs, soft and slick with lotion – some crusty old store brand hand lotion surely past its use by-date, quickly snagged from under the bedside table, of all things undignified. Still, every move of his hand was punctuated by a guttural groan at the back of Will's throat, as if Hannibal's fingers were fish hooks threading through his intestines, pulling at them with each thrust, and it made Hannibal's mind flat-line each time. His bullet wound hurt due to the exertion – even as he tried to support his weight on his elbows and knees, a dull ache stabbed at his insides, butter knives in his abdomen. 

“Just- do it, you fuckin' bastard, come on.” Will ground out through clenched jaws, and Hannibal tried to slip into his expertly tailored person-suit, tried to retract figurative claws and maintain some semblance of pretenses, but the moment he sunk inside his writhing form, Will released a wounded sort of whining noise that had whatever self-restraint Hannibal was able to practice snap like a cord.

(The rest of his memories are nothing but teeth and nails and the way Will rolled his hips almost obscenely as Hannibal bit bruises into the soft skin of his abused throat. The bruises blossomed and spread like wildflowers down his sternum.)

But Will, he actually _smiled_ when Hannibal rolled off of him, a lazy, wolfish grin that made his nose crinkle pleasantly. A sharp, biting pain tugged at Hannibal's insides and he groaned, casting a tentative glance down to his abdomen to inspect the damage of his overexertion. There was fresh blood on his gauze, spots of red that felt wet against his hand when he touched it.

“The big bad wolf with a thorn in his paw.” Will snickered, poking a finger into the wound. A jolt of pain shot through Hannibal's form. “How the tables turn. You deserve this.”

At that, Hannibal actually felt a little bit – used isn't the right word, but he felt cheated, let astray by his own presumptions. He wasn’t even aware he _had_ presumptions before he realized that they were not met, his gaze lingering on Will's naked form as he rolled out of bed to make his way in to the bathroom to pour himself a second bath, leaving Hannibal alone with his musings.

 

*

 

In time, Will abandoned the safe haven of that worn, threadbare old couch along with the tawdry company of half-emptied scotch bottles to share Hannibal’s bed. He told himself it was merely a natural extension of their awkward attempts at intimacy, all those violent collisions that were more like physical altercations with flickers of tenderness – nothing so dramatic as exorcism, but definitely cathartic, something tight and knotted resolving with every blunt nail of Will’s fingers biting into wiry muscle, every groan rolling off Hannibal’s tongue as he shoved Will face first into the sheets and slammed into him with reckless abandon. 

“Have you ever done this to someone else?” Will asked once between shallow breaths, uncomfortably folded over himself and mind reduced to a dim, blissful haze. As it turns out, getting pounded into the mattress actually clouded his thoughts much more effectively than alcohol, Hannibal’s crushing embrace proving to be far superior to the chilled womb of a rusted bathtub. 

“What?” Hannibal sounded distant, as if he was caught up in something that wasn’t Will.

“This, did you ever fuck A--Alana like this?” Stuttering to match Hannibal’s thrusts. “Bedelia?” 

“No,” Hannibal grunted, resisting an urge to clamp a hand over Will’s mouth to keep him from bringing up ghosts of the past he had long rid himself of, memories left at the bottom of the sea. “Never quite like this.”

“Good, that’s good.” Will exhaled. “They don’t-- deserve it.”

(It only sounded self-deprecating because he meant to say that they don’t _need_ it, stopping himself as he realized he would have inadvertently admitted to the fact that he _did_.)

While Will would have preferred to roll out of bed and stumble out the door the moment they untangled their limbs, circumstances soon forced him to acknowledge the advantages of remaining in the comfort of Hannibal’s bed when he was fucked-out in the middle of the night. Most of the time, he curled up in a ball in the corner of the bed facing the wall, but sometimes, Hannibal woke up to stubble chafing his nape, to an arm draped over his middle. He secretly reveled in this tender warmth, in the way it felt like tuning a discordant instrument, like shattered pieces of a whole were slowly coming together.

”Stop looking at me like that.” Will snapped one morning, facial features twisted into a scowl. ”I can't sleep when you do.”

Hannibal frowned.

”How am I looking at you?”

“Like this is something that it _isn't_.” Will sighed. “This look of anticipation. It's weighing on me.”

“Labels are only as useful as the value one attributes them,” Hannibal said after a moment’s consideration, carefully choosing his words. “The use of labels may prove to be a blunt tool in assessing the nature of a complex relationship. We don't have to classify what we have in accordance to conventional categorizations of intimacy.” 

Will merely grumbled in response, heavy eyelids sliding shut as he curled up to go back to sleep. Hannibal decided to tread uncharted territory.

“You will find the way I look at you mirrors the way I feel about you. I am not inclined to hide it.” He said, softening his voice as he reached out to brush his hand against Will's arm. ”Look at me, Will.”

The younger man sighed. Then he slowly dragged his gaze up to look at Hannibal. His eyes were drowsy, still fogged by sleepiness. Once they cleared up, he could see soft tenderness flickering behind stubborn defiance. Hannibal let his fingers brush against the warm skin of his unharmed cheek. Despite the innocent nature of his touch, Will's pupils were instantly blown.

“Is it what you were hoping to see?” Will asked, voice and face frustratingly impassive.

“Yes.” Hannibal admitted. To his surprise, Will reached out to run his fingers through his hair in an equally chaste gesture. He wanted to close his eyes to savor the gentle touch, so different from every other touch they had shared, but kept them open in case Will was looking for the same thing he had been.

“It's strange seeing you like this,” Will murmured. ”I'm not used to it.”

“To what?”

He traced Hannibal's cheek, running his fingers along the line of his jaw.

“I don't know if you've looked yourself in the mirror these last few months, but you don't exactly look like yourself.” He said, looking pointedly at Hannibal's bearded cheeks and mussed hair. ”Very _The Old Man and the Sea_.”

”You propose I look like a starved, sleep-deprived fisherman in an epic struggle with a symbolic force of nature?”

Will smiled, a genuine grin that reached his eyes, baring teeth and crinkling the skin around his eyes. Hannibal smiled too, because he wanted it to last.

“That’s it, yeah.” Will chuckled, decidedly good-humored. 

“What are you in the context of this conversation?” Hannibal couldn’t help but ask. ”The boy coming to my aid or the marlin I'm attempting to catch?”

“Mighty conceited of you to consider me your apprentice.” Will pointed out, and Hannibal cursed his curiosity, thinking he'd overstepped his bounds, but then the other man smiled again. “The old man and the marlin had persistence in common. The marlin put up a fight, proving itself a worthy opponent. Forcing the old man to double his efforts, proving himself worthy of catching it.”

“A shame he had to see his trophy catch spoiled once he caught it, turned into mere skeletal remains by the sharks.” Hannibal said, almost mournful, as it hit close to home.

“Yes.” Will agreed. “And it was his own fault, too. He sailed too far out, knowing what it might entail.” His smile dropped. “Anything could become a tragic flaw, even persistence.” 

Hannibal's conversations with Will so often slipped out of his hands. He wanted that smile back, but it was a rare occurrence that he made Will laugh and the moment seemed to have passed either way – his face had gone back to being blank, eyes soft and sad. Hannibal's fingers twitched with the urge to gouge them out of their sockets.

 

*

 

”We need to leave.” There was an unusual note of urgency to Hannibal’s voice as he strode through the front door, closing and locking it with an underscoring click. It was rare enough for him to sound bothered in the slightest that Will’s thoughts were immediately wound into apprehension.

”What's going on?” He asked warily. Hannibal merely pulled a tablet from a bag Will had no recollection of them owning and tapped on the screen before handing it over to him. Will drew his brow in confusion, but once he glanced down at the screen and saw the TattleCrime logo at the top of the webpage, he went deadly still.

_FBI in pursuit of Murder Husbands._

The words stared back at Will from the headline plastered across the screen. There was an old, decidedly damning picture of him, hollow-eyed and muzzled in a straitjacket, next to a picture of Hannibal wearing the same gear. The pink outline of a cutesy heart was photoshopped around their photos, framing their morbid portraits. For a split second, it irked him immensely.

”Our time here has been unnecessarily prolonged.” Hannibal said. ”We should keep moving now that we are healed for the most part, while there is still time to-“

”Did something happen while you were out?” Will interrupted, casting a pointed glance down at the tablet, realizing the suspicious nature of the appliance. It seemed worn, screen scratched and the home button a faded shade of black, not at all like a new one. ”Where did you even get this?”

Hannibal ran an unusually distraught hand through his disheveled hair, and Will caught a glimpse of bloodied knuckles. Understanding clicked into place in his head.

”Somebody recognized me when I went into town.” Hannibal said matter-of-factly. ”It is taken care of, but I strongly advice against remaining in the country, never mind the same state.”

Will instantly felt very tired, very sober and very aware of his exhausting existence. It must have shown on his face, because Hannibal approached him, a determined look in his eyes.

”I am making arrangements, Will. But this is about you too. I need you to consider the implications of that.”

Will wanted to say that maybe he _wanted_ to get caught. Maybe he didn’t feel like running. But he had no strength left in him to lie to Hannibal. Or himself, for that matter, although that was always easier.

”Let me help you with that.” Will said quietly instead, glancing to Hannibal's injured knuckles. And Hannibal did, allowing him to clean him up and wrap his hands in gauze. As Will tended to him, Hannibal’s tense shoulders slumped with relaxation, the trace of agitation showing on his face slowly fading away. It made Will just a little bit angry. Despite his attempt at double suicide, Hannibal was so convinced he wouldn't try to kill him again, so adamantly _not_ afraid of him.

”Thank you,” Hannibal said, because it was polite. Will inclined his head, patting his hand absent-mindedly. “I will look into a few things. Perhaps contact Chiyoh, should we need her assistance. Expect to leave within a few days.”

 

*

 

”Thomas Hyde.” Will repeated to himself, studying the amiable face of this virtual stranger, listed among faculty members on The University of Minnesota website. ”PhD In criminal psychology, no less.”

”Like you.” Hannibal smiled. ”I picked someone with your credentials. I wouldn't want to limit you if you’d ever feel the need to go back to teaching at some point.”

On some rather absurd level, this was considerate of him. But Will's head was already swimming with all this planning ahead. He had a hard time wrapping his head around leaving this place and taking a trip across the country with Hannibal, let alone murdering some unknown man in cold blood once they arrived at their destination.

”And who will you be?” He asked, a bit weakly.

”Dr. Atticus Marlow.” Hannibal said in reply. ”A psychiatrist unfortunately lacking my ample experience, but it will suffice. He lives next-state, so the trip won't be too taxing.”

Atticus. Hannibal _would_ find someone with an equally bizarre name. The older man rummaged around in a duffel bag and threw Will a thick leather jacket along with a matching pair of pants. Will raised his brow in disbelief as Hannibal produced two helmets and a similar outfit for himself.

”What are we doing?”

”As it happens, I came across a couple with a motorcycle. Considering we have limited options as far as traveling goes, it will have to do.”

Will couldn't stop himself from laughing then, unsuccessfully stifling a chuckle as Hannibal tied his hair back in a bun, dressed a tad too young; black leather hugging his form, the bulky, studded jacket straining to accommodate his broad shoulders. Hannibal turned to look at him, seeming a little bit confused, but pleased none the less at his rare smile.

”So what's the plan here?” Will asked, huffing another incredulous laugh. ”We drive half-way across the country, kill these guys, steal their identities, and then what?”

”Then, the unlikely duo of Thomas Hyde and Atticus Marlow are faced with the challenge of making it all the way to Avignon, France, where there is a cottage waiting.” Hannibal paused. ”Catching a flight is not an option, but I am fairly certain I’ll be able to procure a boat. I understand you know your way around boats?”

Will just stared for a moment. Then he nodded. Hannibal smiled, looking annoyingly smug.

”Very well, then.” He said. ”You should consider your appearance, since both our pictures seem to be making headlines. We'll be leaving as soon as it's dark.”

Will shaved his beard and cut his hair shorter, becoming the opposite of Hannibal's long hair and bearded cheeks. Hannibal had truly thought ahead. For how long? Will couldn't help but wonder how many empty houses were waiting across the world for an emergency craving Hannibal's use of them. He shoved the dizzying thought out of his head and enjoyed the sense of freedom in cutting through the dark of night on a motorcycle instead, flush against Hannibal’s back, arms locked around his middle. As he learned to lean with him, syncing his movements with Hannibal’s, it felt like their bodies fused, merging into a single flesh.

 

*

 

Hannibal soon came to discover that Will tends to kill with the same sense of raw fury he employed when they killed Dolarhyde, moving like a drunkard in a bar brawl with the same intense, yet fundamentally confused sense of focus: all lead-footed lumbering, labored breathing and bared teeth. Will had no interest in knowing anything about Hyde, didn't even particularly care to engage the man in conversation as they broke into his home. Didn't answer the panicked staccato asking them to _take anything you want, p-please, just leave my wife alone_. Hannibal expected Will to falter, expected his empathy disorder to run haywire and meddle with his focus. Expected Will to shuffle his feet, glancing up at Hannibal with eyes begging for guidance or exemption, half-expected the words of persuasion he rehearsed in his head beforehand wouldn’t be enough, should Will spiral into this pit of morality-ridden doubt.

As usual, he was unable to predict the enigma that is Will Graham.

Hannibal had been very pleased at the notion of Will immediately gaining the upper hand with Hyde, snatching a knife from a cluttered kitchen counter without skipping a beat, while Hannibal made quick work of his wife. As Will took a firm hold of the man from behind, forearm digging into his windpipe, Hannibal was reminded of the fact that The Dragon had held Will exactly like that before he came to his aid. Will was, of course, never like Dolarhyde in physical ability, but compared to the lightweight middle-aged man with a build suggesting a lifetime of white-collar work, he may as well have been an incarnation of the Great Red Dragon himself, practically lifting Hyde off the floor.

”Look at me, Hannibal,” Will demanded, a calm gentleness to his steady voice that echoed Hannibal’s tone of voice a few days back. His gaze immediately snapped up, locking onto Will's eyes. Satisfied with his compliance, the younger man tightened his grip on the knife before plunging it deep into Hyde's heaving chest, stabbing him once, twice, drawing a string of breathy whimpers from the man's throat. Will’s veiny arms flexed as he held the convulsing body in a firm grip, driving the knife into his bleeding torso a third, fourth and fifth time before pulling it out and twisting the man's head, snapping his neck in one quick motion, practically throwing the limp body to the side as if it was mere waste, making it land on the floor with a loud thump.

Through it all, his pupils were dilated, gaze fixed on Hannibal.

Hannibal felt as if his nerve endings were on fire. 

He was on his knees. Hannibal still isn't sure when that happened, but suddenly he found himself kneeling at Will's feet, soaking his pants in the blood pooling on the floor, staring up into those deep, dark eyes, black like oil spill in the dim light surrounding them, so beautiful, so inconceivably _perfect_. And he had a part in it, such a dizzying, exhilarating concept, acting the part of Will's maker – or was he merely a catalyst? – being granted a glimpse of that glorious potential in action.

Will ran the knife along Hannibal's cheek, letting the sharp tip scrape against his skin before stopping at his mouth. The blade nudged his lips open and Hannibal – careful not to cut himself – ran his tongue along the dull spine of the knife, lapping up metallic blood. One of Will's warm, calloused hands reached out to gently caress the back of his neck and Hannibal almost shuddered, closing his eyes. Then, Will suddenly grasped a handful of his hair and twisted his head back, placing he tip of the knife against his throat, above the swell of his adam’s apple.

“This is what you were hoping to see, right?” Will inquired, his voice a tender whisper despite the harshness of his grip. “Bone of your bone, flesh of your flesh. Remember the creator's responsibility to that which he creates. You breathe life into its lungs, there is a possibility of forbidden fruit being consumed.”

“There is no forbidden fruit, I would never deny you anything.” Hannibal rushed to object, much too quickly. And it was so rash, so blatantly untrue that Will scoffed, but he still looked at him with affectionate charcoal eyes, pressing the knife just a little bit closer. If Hannibal swallowed, the sharp blade would break skin.

”Yes, you would. Your love is like God's love. Conditioned.”

”God is forgiving. I would forgive you anything.”

He would. And he had. Will must have sensed truth there because he lowered the knife and released him from his grip. Since Hannibal was feeling indulgent, he leaned in closer and pressed the side of his face against Will's thighs, warm even through the scratchy fabric of his jeans. Will starting carding gently – although not at all apologetically – through his hair, his wet, bloodied fingers brushing against the shell of Hannibal’s ear. This twilight zone of mingling emotions was worth the extra time spent cleaning up the mess of blood and DNA they left behind in the Hyde household.

 

*

 

Marlow was a widower in his early sixties, a husk of a man with a perpetual hunch to his narrow shoulders, sitting alone in his study with a bottle of wine and no glass to accompany it when Hannibal and Will snuck in through his backdoor. Will left him for Hannibal to kill on his own, for reasons Hannibal wasn't quite sure of at the time. Will simply reclined on an armchair and watched with attentive eyes as Hannibal strangled the older man – weakly, pathetically giving in to death without a struggle, only offering a soft, unconvinced mantra of _no no no_ in protest.

”Sad.” Will said without disdain as his eyes lingered on the dead body slumped against the wall. ”I bet he wanted to be with his departed wife.”

Hannibal had nothing to contribute, as he never thought much of such things. Empathy was Will's special gift, not his, and such matters did not particularly interest him anyway.

”It must feel strange to be on this side of the crime scene.” Hannibal said instead. ”You are used to putting the pieces together after the damage has been done.”

”Yes.” Will agreed. ”But there are other pieces to be put together from this side too.”

”What pieces did you put together when you killed Hyde?” 

Hannibal was genuinely curious. Will was quiet for some time before offering a reply.

”I felt his fear.” He finally said. “He felt helpless, small in the way one might feel in the face of a violent storm. No use fighting it as it sweeps you off your feet.” Will paused. ”I know that fear, it doesn't faze me. Much.”

He cast another glance to the corpse slumped against the wall.

”This one felt nothing like that. You did him no disservice.”

 

*

 

Out at sea, Will was different. He was breathing easier, seemed more in tune with himself and his surroundings. Instead of fidgeting nervously, as he was always inclined to do, with his shoulders hunched and his gaze pulling toward his feet, he stretched into his full height. Squared his shoulders and tilted his head up to the sky, closing his eyes as the wind whipped at his face. Hannibal knew Will to be a light sleeper, tossing and turning while curled up in fetal positon, hands fisting in the sheets until his knuckles whitened, but during their stay at the boat, Will slept with arms and legs sprawled out, chest rising and falling with breaths so deep he was almost rumbling.

It was beautiful. Awe-inspiring, like watching a caged bird test its wings in the boundless wilderness of nature.

The fundamentals of their relationship seemed to be different too, or at the very least in a state of flux. Back in the cabin, Will hardly ever spoke unless spoken to, only pressed against him with sickness in his eyes, fevered and needy, until Hannibal pinned him down face first on the bed or bent him over a kitchen counter. Now, he was mostly easy-going conversation and casual physical contact, a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder rather than below the waistline of his pants – even though they still shared a bed out of necessity, as the boat only provided them with one.

While Hannibal would have preferred not to beat around the bush, he was still afraid to ask, once more blindsided by Will’s erratic behavior. And so, when he woke up one night without the comforting warmth of another body next to his, he wasn’t sure whether that was a cause for concern or not. He found Will sitting quietly on the upper deck as he investigated the matter, looking up at the starry sky above their heads. As Hannibal made his way up the ladder to join him, Will didn’t even turn his head in acknowledgement. Then, after a moment’s silence – 

“I have so many reasons to hate you.” 

Hannibal’s heart sank. Will turned his head to look at him, and Hannibal breathed an inward sigh of relief as there was no trace of resentment on his face, nothing in his smooth facial features suggesting the continuation to this assessment was going to be as discouraging.

“I, uh- don’t.” Will smiled faintly, proving Hannibal’s tentative hopes right. “I don’t hate you.”

“What changed?” Hannibal asked, aware of the wide range of possible answers to that question. Will only sighed.

“Nothing. Not even I.” He said. “I just made a decision. Honestly, I think I made that decision a long time ago, and then I just spent all this time trying to convince myself I hadn’t.”

Hannibal sat down, trying to make sense of the other man’s words. Will surprised him by scooting closer to lean his head against his shoulder, snaking an arm around the small of his back. His hair smelled like salt water and seaweed as he practically nuzzled the crook of Hannibal’s neck, the scent of the ocean mingling with his usual heady sweetness. 

“Love and hate are often said to be closely intertwined.” Hannibal mused, deeming the rather clichéd saying broad enough to fit the topic of their conversation. “Indifference is the poisoned chalice to any kind of passionate involvement.”

“I have a hard time imagining ever feeling indifferent about you.” Will almost chuckled, breath hot against Hannibal’s skin. “Sorry I woke you. We should get back to bed.”

Once they were lying next to each other yet again, Will ran his fingers along Hannibal’s back in soothing, circular motions that had him melting like wax into the sheets. He circled the distasteful scar left behind by Mason Verger’s branding iron in particular, running a calloused fingertip along the numbed skin. Hannibal was not particularly pleased about being reminded of its existence, but there was something affectionate in Will’s touch, like he was flipping through a beloved family photo album, so he merely closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

 

*

 

When they made a quick stop in a small French village to acquire some basic necessities, Will was thrilled to see the shining beacon of a McDonald’s in the distance, a flickering neon M lighting up the dark. Hannibal knew even before Will looked at him with pleading eyes that he would indulge him, and so he found himself sitting on a creaking leather sofa in a cramped booth, watching Will wolf down an alarming amount of fast food with a vigor he found mildly disconcerting. 

“Have you ever had anything at McDonald’s?” Will asked, trying but failing to sound casual as he bit into his hamburger, practically moaning around the mouthful of grease, eyes rolling back in his skull. Hannibal shook his head, because he hadn’t. And he wouldn’t, if he could help it. But then Will offered him his half-eaten burger, wagging it in front of his face with expectant eyes.

“Come on, Hannibal,” He said, grinning. “Have a bite. It’s good for you.”

Hannibal gave him a disbelieving look. Still, he took a small, dutiful bite, letting the bland meat circulate in his mouth. It tasted like preservatives and flavor enhancer and he had a hard time wrapping his head around how it could possibly warrant Will’s eerily orgasmic response, but it was worth it, if only to see that grin on the younger man’s face as he swallowed it down. 

“Amazing,” Will said, stuffing his mouth full of fries. “If I ever sit down to write my memoirs, this is going in it. I had Hannibal ‘Food Snob’ Lecter eat at a McDonald’s.”

“You’re already overstating my part in this. I ordered nothing for myself.”

“You’re right,” Will said solemnly, getting up from his seat. “I’ll be right back.”

“Will, I don’t-“

“Hannibal,” Will cautioned, a mischievous smile etched across his face. “Seriously, this is no time to be a fussy eater. It’s better than the supply of canned food we keep on the boat anyway.”

Hannibal wanted to retort that should Will keep up his insolence he might just settle for eating _him_ , but he had already turned around to get him something off that loathsome menu. When he returned and Hannibal grudgingly ate his fill of fast food, washing it down with a ridiculously sugary milkshake, Will laughed hard enough that Hannibal ought to have considered it insulting. But the pure _happiness_ showing on the younger man’s face dulled any sense of indignation Hannibal was capable of feeling at that point.

Once they finished their meal, Will leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes as his lips curved into a pleased smile.

“God, I’m so full,” He sighed, content. “That was amazing. Admit you liked it.”

“No.” Hannibal said in response, because he truly didn’t, and Will broke into another fit of wheezing laughter. Hannibal decided to laugh too, despite being rather certain that it came across every bit as bizarre as it felt. He was unused to smiling with his teeth, face twisting into something he was unable to procure a clear mental image of. If Will thought it odd, he said nothing of it.

“You’re unreal.” The younger man chuckled, shaking his head. “Come here, there’s something on your face.”

Hannibal leaned forward and Will licked his thumb before rubbing it across the corner of his mouth, unhesitant, as if he had done it hundreds of times before. Once he was done, he put his thumb back in his mouth, lapping up whatever remains of fast food he had wiped from his face. The sheer intimacy of it made Hannibal’s chest constrict almost painfully, heart thumping audibly in his ears. 

(Later that night, Will kissed him like Hannibal imagined he had kissed the women he loved: slow, indulgent and somehow earnest, a Cheshire cat grin stretching across his face as he bit playfully into his lip, cracking an insinuate joke about how he could _just eat him up, get it_ , and it was – hopeful, something warm and soft, something comfortable Hannibal had not stopped to consider that he wanted for many different reasons, most of them coming down one single fear.)

(The prospect of being denied.)

 

*

 

In his dreams, he's still falling. 

Will considers these dreams nightmares these days, no longer comforted by the idea of non-existence at the bottom of the sea. Hannibal is giving him his first bath since – _since_ – in their home in Avignon, sitting fully clothed on a stool behind him with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, massaging something that smells expensive into his hair with firm, gentle hands. 

“This is nice,” Will rumbles as Hannibal rinses his conditioned hair, soft and silky on his neck. The older man hums in agreement. 

“I always found it exceedingly intimate, doing this for a loved one.” He says, surprisingly candid. “Besides, there is something satisfying in accommodating a physical comfort that is unreciprocated, as I have told you previously.”

“I’ll reciprocate if you join me.” Will offers, closing his eyes to savor the warm hands running along his scalp.

“I won’t fit.”

“If you say so.” Will says, glancing at Hannibal with a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Your birthday is coming up. Anything in particular you want to do?”

Hannibal’s hand lingers on Will’s neck, fingers stroking the wet, soft skin as he considers the question.

“I have entertained the thought of showing you Paris for some time.” He finally says. “You said you’d never been.”

“That sounds like a gift for me rather than for you.” Will remarks. “But if that’s what you want, I’d be happy to go.”

Hannibal inclines his head, smiling, before he starts rubbing a scented oil into Will’s soft strands of hair. Will only shuts his eyes again, thoughts lingering on the grimy tile and rusty bathtubs of the past; a thin sheen of melancholy like a film over the present bright, clean bathroom full of sunlight. He always felt as if he was alone back then, even though he obviously wasn’t, a wall being the only thing separating him from Hannibal. 

A wall. Among other things. 

He captures the thought as one might a harmless house spider, trapping it within a metaphorical glass before releasing it into the wild, watching it scurry along for a brief moment before going about his day, soon forgetting it was ever there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter kinda got away from me. Planning to either write two more chapters before I finish this story OR just stopping here because Life, life is busy and writing is hard when you're a self-conscious Swede insecure about their Swedish writing, never mind their English prose, lol. We'll see what happens though.
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Kudos and comments and general feedback = hugely enormously appreciated and motivates me to keep posting on here!


	6. Ultima Thule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It feels unreal. Like the fleeting memory of a dream, slipping away like dissipating smoke. Hannibal has always had rapid, feral reflexes, bouncing off his brain and shooting from his spinal cord like bullets expelled from a gun barrel. He is hardwired for survival, all those jagged edges of his inner beast tearing through his person-suit in the face of threat. Only action precedes conscious thought, and this once, everything that isn’t lizard brain short-circuits. Once he feels the spatters of warm blood cooling on his face, he is only distantly aware of the reason why._
> 
> Will and Hannibal spend some time together in Paris, celebrating Hannibal's birthday the way one might expect. Then a dire mistake brings trouble their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember this story? Me neither, apparently. I have to admit, this fic was mainly conceived because I wanted to try my hand at post s3 porn, then I snuck some plot in there because I figured I could use it as an outlet for minor plot bunnies. That being said, I’m surprised at the amount of hits and kudos and subscribers this has received. I feel grateful and a little bit guilty considering the slow update, but if anyone’s still around to read it, I hope you’ll enjoy it!
> 
> Oh also, concerning this chapter: this fic has been wildly self-indulgent from the get-go, but this chapter is unusually so. They just won’t stop navel gazing and there’s a _lot_ of pretentious conversation. Also more porn than usual. And extravagant, highly unrealistic kills. Yep.

There is home, and there are places familiar.

While Paris isn’t home, it’s certainly homelike, a place associated with old blood and the comfort of familiarity. Hannibal finds that returning here after many years’ absence is somewhat like Proust’s madeleine, uncovering rooms in his memory palace he hasn’t frequented in so long he feels a twinge of nostalgia at the back of his head.

If Florence is where Hannibal became a man, Paris is where Hannibal traced the outline of manhood. Paris is where Hannibal found a shape for the little boy curled up in the snowy plains of Lithuania, where he found a voice for the mute orphan who dragged through a bleak childhood shell-shocked and trembling, jaws locked tight around a blood-curdling scream.

Paris is where Hannibal first killed someone.

(If home is where hunger was born, here is where hunger was quelled.)

“Tell me about your first kill.” Will says once they’ve settled into the flat they’re renting for their stay in Paris, voice lowered to the gentle _sotto voce_ reserved for speaking to Hannibal. His curls have grown past his ears and his cheeks are clean-shaven, just the way Hannibal likes but won’t say. He smiles, looking somehow innocent in a way that should be unbefitting of a grown man, especially one as lethal.

Hannibal is almost certain that Will is creating this image of himself on purpose, but that may be because his judgement of others is filtered through his own manipulative nature. It might as well be genuine, because the more they kill, the softer Will seems, the lines in his face smoothing out like wrinkles ironed out of a sheet.

“Surely you know that story already,” Hannibal says with a gentle smile, almost teasing, because Will is not the only one able to create an image of domestic bliss and Hannibal is not averse to playing this game.

“What I know is pieced together from what others have told me,” Will’s eyes narrow with another smile. Sweet. Wicked. “I want to hear all of it. From the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

And Hannibal tells him, because he couldn’t possibly deny Will when he looks like a Botticelli made flesh. Truthfully, Hannibal’s first kill had been borderline experimental. Not impulsive by any stretch of the imagination, yet dangerously close to trial and error in terms of prosecution. Set off by that confusing first taste of love, a woman of a time considered ancient even half a lifetime ago. He remembers her as a flurry of dark hair and even darker eyes, exuding quiet intelligence and elegant fierceness. Even now, his memories of her are unsullied enough that he can’t recall a single flaw to the harsh lines of her, draped in soft silk and crisp chiffon.

The lesson in unrequited love aside, Hannibal learned from her the importance of maintaining a bit of decorum. She was dignified at all times, even that day at the market, when she was brought down in the dirt with one simple _hey, japonaise_. He still remembers that man’s remark word for word, the crude, unintentional poetry of the proletariat: _does your pussy run crossways? With a puff of straight hairs like a little explosion._

Will grins at Hannibal’s recital, because he knows then where the story is going. 

Hannibal tells him about the scent of clove clinging to the sharp blade of her katana, the way he obscured his humanity with her _menpō_ : symbolically transitioning from man to more. Purified prima materia, as heavy-handed as his language of symbolism had been at the time. Hannibal’s first kill may have been tarnished by inexperience, but he was strong then – even more so than he is now – fueled by rage, disgust and youthful hubris as he sliced that pig of a man’s belly open and bared his vile innards for the world to see.

When he cut off his head, it was like breaking a spell. That is the exact phrasing he uses when recounting the story to Will, because he can’t think of a better way of putting it.

“Interesting take on a fairytale,” Will quirks an eyebrow. “Man turned beast. Shouldn’t have liked to know you back then, probably wouldn’t have made it out alive.”

“A bleak assessment. She made it out alive, after all.” Hannibal protests. “I never touched a hair on her head.”

 _That may be true, but when_ I _broke your heart, you tore my hair right out of their roots and then some_ , Will doesn’t say. Instead, he offers an amused smile.

“You put her on a pedestal,” He suggests. “You put Lady Murasaki on a pedestal because there was nowhere else for you to put her, and then that man brought her tumbling down. Turned her flesh and blood. You resented him for that.”

“Medieval literary tradition would term it a _fin’amors_.” Hannibal muses. “Genuine, pure love, untainted by carnal desire.

“An ideal of courtly love.” Will huffs a laugh. “You would cast yourself as the hero of the story, then. I never knew you to be in any way concerned with chivalry.”

“Youthful foolishness, perhaps.” The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitches with something that could be a smile. “She did not appreciate the sentiment. I suppose she would cast me as the dragon to be slain rather than the knight in shining armor.”

Will and Hannibal still tend to talk in metaphor, verbally circling each other like playful wolves. It’s affectionate more than anything else, a game with no clearly defined rules. Hannibal always enjoyed the other man’s dry wit, the way his words writhe and catch, the way he’s sometimes trapped beneath Will’s sharp remarks. 

“I think you’ve got it wrong, Hannibal,” Will says in a gentle tone that is almost patronizing. “Dragons are guardians or captors, knights are heroes or interveners. I don’t think you fit into her story at all.”

The player of a game with no rules cannot be accused of foul play. Still, Hannibal has to make an effort not to take offense.

“And your story?” Hannibal asks. “Where do I fit in there?”

Will looks pensive and serious.

“I like to think that I moved beyond the boundaries of my story. Joined you behind the curtains and shed my strings.” 

He smiles.

“It may be wishful thinking. I might be able to tell, someday.”

 

*

 

Being this far removed from what Will has come to consider home is like slipping into a different reality. A reality where Will might steal kisses from Hannibal when he’s cooking, where he can borrow Hannibal’s shirts as he pads downstairs to join him for breakfast and where his feet may brush against the other man’s legs underneath restaurant tables, prompting shared secretive smiles. This newlywed couple routine isn’t necessarily faked on Will’s part, but he would freely admit that it’s purposefully employed for the sake of amusement.

Because he can. Because they can. Just because it’s a game doesn’t mean it isn’t genuine.

“La Grande Odalisque, by Ingres.” Hannibal says, admiring the painting in front of them. They’re attending a private art exhibition at the Louvre, and Will has no idea how Hannibal could possibly have arranged for that, but he doesn’t ask. He never asks. Only studies the picture in front of him, rather certain he recognizes it. The painting depicts a young, naked woman lying on a chaise in a provocative, yet coy position, looking over her shoulder.

“An odalisque was a woman kept in a sultan's harem.” Hannibal continues. “Ingres had a tendency to reflect his subject's social condition through his paintings, which is evident even in this one. There's a rather jarring contrast between the odalisque's posture and her facial expression; her naked form and positioning suggests the promise of an erotic encounter, yet her face will not be complicit in this promise. It’s indifferent, reflecting a complex psychological constitution.”

As Will takes a closer look at the painting, Hannibal puts his hand on the small of his back with the self-assured confidence that comes from having done so many times, and it feels like marking territory, like staking claim. Will almost finds it laughable, this possessive streak Hannibal is continuously letting show, as there can’t possibly be an abundance of competition. _Nobody_ looks at Will like Hannibal does, with that focused admiration, that sense of apotheosis, becoming almost ridiculous considering the subject matter. Will isn’t – hasn’t _ever_ been much to look at, hiding away in soft, worn clothes two sizes too large, face always twisted into a frown. 

(When Hannibal presented him with the tailored suit he’s wearing right now, Will had feigned offense and jokingly accused him of wanting to dress him up in fancy clothes for his fancy snob gatherings and fully expected an equally playful jab at the haphazard outfit he put together that morning, but instead, there had been a sudden serious glint to Hannibal’s eyes.

“Are you familiar with the concept of _shibui_?” Hannibal asked, and Will said nothing, knowing Hannibal would lecture him on the subject either way. Sure enough -

“ _Shibui_ is a subtle and unobtrusive aesthetic ideal. It is achieved through combining contrasting concepts such as elegant and unrefined or smooth and irregular.” Hannibal had smiled. “It calls attention the underlying beauty of that which is considered mundane and ordinary in life. In spite of its simplicity, there are intricate and complex variables that evoke the sense of uniqueness.” 

“What’re you getting at?” Will grumbled, already knowing the answer. Hannibal’s smile didn’t falter.

“I’ll admit to buying you things that I think compliments you, but you should know I appreciate you as you are, untarnished by my preferences.”

It had been true for the most part, because Hannibal finds Will to be the understated, roughened beauty of ash glazed pottery, a clean cut line with an unexpected explosion of shape. But no matter how lovely Will is in his own clothes, Hannibal enjoys accentuating his assets too.

“You put some thought into that, huh.” Will huffed, snatching up the suit in one hand before lumbering off to the bathroom. “I’ll just go try the damn thing on, Christ.”)

The odalisque gazes knowingly at Will from over her shoulder. But whether Hannibal is a knight or a dragon, Will is a far cry from a helpless maiden, isn’t allowed to cast himself as a victim anymore considering the way his cock stirs in his pants as the firm pressure of Hannibal’s hand settles above his tailbone.

 

*

 

During their time in Paris, they kill at a pace that is borderline frenzied. Only it isn’t, because they planned these kills weeks in advance, carefully weighing their options and considering the balance between foolishness and ingenuity. By the end of their stay, they have left a trail of corpses behind: splayed out in vivid Technicolor, savagely torn up and pieced together in intricate designs.

It isn’t an elegant metaphor, but Will finds it’s much like binge eating. Satisfying in the moment due to compulsion, but ultimately devoid of gratification. No, maybe not _devoid_ of gratification, that isn’t quite true, but Will has long since discovered that the fulfillment derived from killing so easily wanes into something stuffed and crowded, tight like a noose around his neck. 

He can tell Hannibal doesn’t share this sense of being overfull when he stares into those oddly colored eyes during their hunts. Those eyes that hold such callous cool, even as they linger on a dead body twisted out of any resemblance of a human shape. If Will allows his broken pendulum to swing in front of his mind’s eye he can feel the other man’s famine like a black hole, not only passive existence but something that needs to be fed.

(Only it can’t ever be filled, not really – this much Will has _always_ been able to tell.)

“Fuck me, oh, God, _please_ -“

The rough surface of brick and mortar scrapes against the side of Will’s face as he’s cornered in a dimly lit alleyway, legs parted and pants hanging loose around his hips. Behind him, Hannibal’s cock is a thick, rigid line against his sweat-slick skin, rocking back and forth between the soft mounds of his ass.

Will would reach around and touch, would tangle his hands in Hannibal’s shirt to bring him even closer, but his arms are immobilized; kept firmly locked along his sides by one of Hannibal’s strong arms around his middle. 

“Keep your thighs close together.” Hannibal murmurs in his ear, his free hand sliding between Will’s legs to slick his thighs with- spit? Lube? Will isn’t sure and is too far gone to care at this point, but it glides smoothly against his skin, just a hint of coldness that makes him suck in a breath in surprise.

“No, no, not like this,” Will pleads, almost keening. “Inside me, Hannibal, come on-”

“We don’t have time to prepare you.”

They truly don’t, because they shouldn’t even be doing this, having just exited a crime scene in the making, still high on the thrill of their final and most ambitious work in Paris. Hannibal would have thought he’d find this back alley fumble unseemly, would have thought he was above pinning Will against a filthy wall, shirt rucked up so he might run a hand over smooth, warm skin and tweak dusky nipples bright red before sliding between soft thighs, but Will had been no less than _irresistible_. Fevered and glossy-eyed by the sheer brutality of their kill, tugging on Hannibal’s sleeve and begging him to fuck him with pretty lips wrapped around even prettier words.

Hannibal’s hard length drags against the sensitive skin of Will’s balls as he slots into place between his thighs and the younger man practically sobs in frustration. His cock is caught in his scrunched up underwear and jeans and there isn’t enough friction, isn’t enough mobility in his pinned form for him to even try to seek it.

“Shh,” Hannibal hushes him ruefully, because the slew of moans slipping out of Will’s mouth has arousal blazing through him like wildfire, but the streets beyond their temporary haven are crowded. Another loud, completely shameless moan escapes Will’s lips and Hannibal clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Quiet for now, Will,” Hannibal mumbles affectionately in his ear, tightening his grip on his waist. “When we’re home, I will have you in our bed and you can be as loud as you want.”

Will’s makes an eager sound against his palm and Hannibal’s sighs, resting his forehead against the back of Will’s head.

“You are so beautiful, Will,” He rasps, because it’s true. “To think that with all your strength, all your capability and prowess, you let me have you like this, _see_ you like this.” 

Will presses his thighs even closer together and Hannibal almost growls, thrusting at a quicker pace between his legs as his stomach flutters with the familiar build of release.

“Indulging me in the illusion of ownership, as if you could be possessed,” Will writhes in his grip, his near-wailing muted by Hannibal’s hand. “As if you could be kept in line by mere physical restraint. My brilliant Will.” 

Hannibal’s breath comes in ragged draughts while his thrusts become arrhythmic, and then Will’s inner thighs are coated with hot spurts of come. He feels drunk on Hannibal’s praise, on power and the loss of it, and when Hannibal’s teeth graze the skin of his neck and skilled fingers trace the tense muscles of his chest and circle his nipples, he comes untouched – shuddering through his release while drooling and moaning helplessly against Hannibal’s palm.

If Hannibal didn’t hold him upright, he would collapse to the ground. Like so many times before, Hannibal knows what he needs without being told.

Regaining a modicum of coherent thought, Will thinks back to their kill, seeing it clearly without the haze of arousal clouding his thoughts. Their victim had been a kindergarten teacher, suspected but not yet arrested for taking advantage of girls in his care. His crimes ranged from what Will sadly came into contact with on a fairly regular basis during his years on the force to violations so cruel it had his gut twisting with revulsion. The man was all-too easily lured away by Will and Hannibal’s promise of another child to torment, confirming beyond any doubt that he was guilty of the newspaper speculations. 

Will remembers the nausea roiling in his gut as he caught glimpse of the glimmer in the man’s eyes at their suggestion. And he remembers the immense satisfaction of seeing that glimmer turn into flinty fear as they turned on him and the man realized his mistake.

Will had never before participated in such an elaborate kill. Still, he was the one who had suggested it, as he recalled a method of torture supposedly employed by Japanese soldiers during World War II. A victim would be secured above a young bamboo shot, and over a few days, the fast-growing bamboo would penetrate the victim in question, effectively impaling them in an inconceivably painful death. Will had suggested it as a way of honoring Hannibal’s time spent in Paris as a young man, and his heart had skipped a beat as Hannibal suggested the kindergarten teacher as a potential victim. 

“A bad guy, huh?” Will had inquired with a slanted smile. “Either someone’s getting soft or trying to pander to my perceived needs.”

“I don’t necessarily consider your lingering sense of morality to be a flaw, Will.” Hannibal had said then, to Will’s surprise. “I chose my victims based on a sense of morality before you as well, only one with different standards. I merely advise against limiting oneself.”

Making arrangements for this particular kill had not necessarily been easy. But there are always ways of solving issues if one is adequately able to think ahead and equipped with the right kind of money and contacts. Hannibal is immeasurably pleased at the notion of having been able to stage such a gruesome sight right in the middle of the botanical garden _Jardin des Plantes_ , right under the nose of tourists and personnel, crowding outside the area closed off at his and Will’s command. 

He remembers the way the man had screamed as they strung him up, before the agony of his slow death had even begun, and wonders if visitors could hear him once his torture began in earnest, screams filtered through the balled up cloth shoved in his mouth and taped into place. 

Will had just laughed when they reentered the area after three days to review the finalization of their work. Doubled over, head ducked and eyes squeezed shut as he sputtered and wheezed and cackled at the sheer madness of it all, until his breathless laugh faded into quiet reverence. On the way back to their apartment, he couldn’t keep his hands off Hannibal, pleading for his cock with eager hands and carefully chosen words until they stumbled into the dark corner of an alley to grind against each other like teenagers.

“This is so fucking reckless,” Will pants once Hannibal slides out from between his thighs and his hand is lowered from his face. He feels sticky all over, his own release mixing with Hannibal’s and running down his thighs. “I can’t believe we did that.”

“Did what?”

Will snorts.

“I don’t know. Kill a man over the span of three days in broad daylight at a tourist attraction? Fuck in an alley where we may have left incriminating DNA?”

“This is nowhere near the crime scene,” Hannibal points out, gently tugging Will’s likely ruined underwear and jeans up around his waist. “We have been painstakingly careful. The distraction was welcome.”

“Yeah,” Will smiles, turning around to face Hannibal. He wraps his arms around his neck and places an almost awkward kiss on his nose, making Hannibal’s lips stretch into a small smile. Will never really got used to these little displays of affection normal couples – _couples_ , he used to term _couple_ to refer to them just now, because what else would they be? – engage in, always feeling like the violent nature of their physical intimacy is more characteristic of their relationship. More true, anyway.

But Hannibal was the one who told him not to limit himself, so he remains in his arms for a moment longer, cocking his head and grinning widely as he recalls what date it is now that night has faded into early morning.

“Happy birthday, Hannibal,” He says, still smiling. He had intended for it to sound tongue-in-cheek, a wry remark with a curl of his lip due to the absurdity of the situation, but he can tell from the sincerity in Hannibal’s smile that it doesn’t translate. 

“Thank you, Will.” He says, pressing an unbearably tender kiss to his lips. The pendulum swings against pitch-black darkness, sluggish and halting, and Will can feel Hannibal bleed into him, can feel them fusing and it’s _beautiful_ , still, it’s beautiful.

With all these bodies left behind, it’s ironic that these ones are not the ones that serve to incriminate them. When they leave Paris, however –

They know it. On some level or another. The moment everything topples over and they stumble across the border of carefully calculated risk. It breaks the illusion of domestic bliss, bringing them back to where they’re stripped down to raw, naked need.

(What that need _is_ has always been under negotiation and interpretation.)

 

*

 

It feels unreal. Like the fleeting memory of a dream, slipping away like dissipating smoke. Hannibal has always had rapid, feral reflexes, bouncing off his brain and shooting from his spinal cord like bullets expelled from a gun barrel. He is hardwired for survival, all those jagged edges of his inner beast tearing through his person-suit in the face of threat. Only action precedes conscious thought, and this once, everything that isn’t lizard brain short-circuits. Once he feels the spatters of warm blood cooling on his face, he is only distantly aware of the reason why. 

It’s the way Will says his name that finally dispels the red mist clouding his vision, sending him tumbling into the disastrous now. It’s a soft, almost surprised chirp, and Hannibal whips his head around only to stare into the bright white of Will’s widened eyes. All color is drained from his face and his mouth is popped open in a perfect o that would have been titillating under different circumstances, but now – 

Will has been stabbed in the neck. All five of his petal-soft fingers are clutching his throat, trying in vain to keep the current of blood from gushing out of his wound. The ground shifts beneath Hannibal’s feet as it all comes crashing down. The whole ordeal is so stupid. So unforgivably _stupid_. Because Hannibal tends not to kill when he is not intimately acquainted with an area. He knows he is at a disadvantage, simply due to the fact that he isn’t familiar with the particulars of his surroundings. Hannibal is cautious. Hannibal is meticulous. But there had been – 

There had been a man. At a gas station they made a stop at. Slack-jawed, dull-eyed and somehow _greasy_ , wearing a trucker hat pressed down past his square forehead along with a stained plaid shirt, buttoned up over a burgeoning beer gut. An American, a truck driver a long way from home speaking garbled French with a heavy rounded accent as he paid for a six pack of energy drinks at the counter while Will and Hannibal waited in line behind him.

He had muttered something as he pushed past them, had turned his sagging face toward them and spit _goddamn faggots_ out of the corner of his mouth like chew tobacco, grimacing as if the words themselves left a sour taste at the back of his throat. Now, having a slur thrown in his face doesn’t bother Hannibal ipso facto, because he isn’t strictly speaking a homosexual, isn’t _anything_ for that matter, as he tends to think of himself as a behavioral creature without a sense of fixed identity. Hannibal _does_ rather than _is_ , although his profession has forced him to reconcile with the idea of human behavior being determined by a messy patchwork of environmental influences and genetic makeup, creating the foundation of being. 

(Hannibal has spent too much time seated in lecture halls and on different ends of therapy sessions not to consider the impact of childhood trauma on his actions, but that doesn’t explain everything, doesn’t explain the itching bloodlust underneath his skin, doesn’t explain the way everything is filtered through this thin sheen of red. It mostly explains why Hannibal doesn’t take well to being hungry, and Hannibal is _always_ hungry.

An uncomfortable truth: Hannibal has considered the possibility that he _is_.

Another uncomfortable truth: if Hannibal _is_ , it’s because he _became_. 

Once he co-authored an article questioning the validity of research claiming environmental influences on psychopathic traits, just for the irony of it. Now that he thinks about it, it might not be irony as much as denial.)

Back at the gas station, Hannibal merely blinked in response as he registered the unsavory remark. No matter the extent of his dissatisfaction, he is getting old; is way past anything that isn’t dignified stoicism regardless of the way his gut wrenches with that familiar hunger. Will, however, Will never made a secret out of anything, and so Hannibal wasn’t surprised to see him freeze up, shoulders drawing toward his ears as his eyes hardened into gleaming, black beads.

“Did you hear that?” He asked, aloof in spite of the dangerous glint in his eyes.

“I believe you once referred to it as free-range rude.” Hannibal replied, secretly mulling over plausible reasons for Will’s violent reaction. He considered the issue of internalized homophobia, thinking Will may consider himself to be a heterosexual man, no matter what they do behind closed doors. 

(Hannibal had been wrong though, because Will was merely concerned about the fact that it was the _second_ time someone pegged them for a homosexual couple, in spite of overt evidence. And if people can read the nature of their relationship on his face, what else is he letting slip, what other pieces of precious information can be seen in the way Will moves, talks, _exists_ in the dull, faded world outside of the one he and Hannibal has created for themselves? 

It doesn’t bear thinking about.)

The American slammed the door to his truck shut and two sets of vigilant eyes tracked his movements carefully. Hannibal figured there could be no harm in deviating from protocol. They could take a detour, follow the truck driver to his next stop and kill him discretely enough for it to seem like an accident. Like the deadly outcome of some mundane, petty crime, a mugging, perhaps; just for the satisfaction making this nuisance pay for his wicked tongue.

“Shall we?” Hannibal inquired, and Will shrugged.

“After you.”

And it had been _satisfying_ , Hannibal is loath to admit, once the truck driver pulled over at a so good as empty rest stop where they could easily overpower him behind the stalls of a filthy men’s room. But then Will leaned in without spotting the knife in their victim’s hands, a little army knife hid snug against his palm and – 

Feral reflexes.

Hannibal practically threw the man to the ground and _stomped_ him into the pavement, crushing him like a bug under the sole of his shoe, pressing the sharp edge of his heel spitefully into cracked ribs until the edges of broken bone pierced soft, slick organs, reducing his insides to mush inside his concave chest. His wet, gurgling screams were like a band aid to an open wound, did nothing to placate whatever possessed Hannibal to kill him with the unhinged fury of something savage, and he wasn’t even aware that he was doing it, that he was grunting like a bull in rut with each pinpoint precision stomp of his foot until Will let out a terrifying little wheezing sound and then:

“Hannibal.”

A soft plea, and Hannibal feels as if he just woke up. It’s reminiscent of the voice Will used to have, the one that made him sound as if he was trying not to burst out crying until his voice was strained and wavering with the effort. These days, Will’s voice is a dark, smooth hum, like running water or the soft side of velvet. Hannibal sometimes touches his throat when he speaks to feel it reverberate through him, his hand a bow to Will’s strings. 

Now it’s back to broken records, a leaky faucet.

It makes something cold and slippery coil in Hannibal’s stomach and he turns his attention from the mess of meaty pulp smashed into the asphalt to Will, gently prying the blood-slick hand from his neck, murmuring something along the lines of _I need to see, Will, please, let me see_. Hannibal so rarely pleads, but he does now, and Will trembles with the implications.

But there is no respiratory distress. No damage to the trachea. No extensive vascular damage despite the precious arteries tucked away beneath the surface of the human neck. Still, Hannibal can only tell so much without hospital equipment, without performing a laryngoscopy, an ultrasound, all those procedures that are not available to him, and while Will’s hemodynamic condition seems fairly stable, injuries to the neck always bleed profusely. With the added stress of the situation, the rushing adrenaline and soaring blood pressure – 

He should call an ambulance. But he can’t, of course, and the prospect of being _incapable_ is nothing short of infuriating. Hannibal tears off a piece of his shirt and holds it to Will’s injury to keep a steady pressure while gently guiding him to lean against the motorcycle.

“We need to get you to a hospital.” Hannibal says. Will’s eyes soften into a silent plea and he mouths _no_ , but that earns him nothing but a determined look. 

“We _are_ getting you to a hospital, Will. Anything else is out of the question.” Hannibal pauses. “We passed a sign about ten miles back, the question is whether you can ride with me in your present condition. We will have to take his truck if you can’t. But as I’m sure you can imagine, that isn’t ideal.”

“I can,” Will quickly assures him in a breathy voice, mouth opening and closing like a gutted fish gasping for air. “I can ride with you, Hannibal.”

The frantic way his eyeballs dart around makes Hannibal wish he had time to further desecrate the useless piece of flesh culpable for his distress. Instead he straddles the bike and takes comfort in the fact that Will is able to sit upright and hold onto him. Even though he feels heavy and slumped like a ragdoll behind him, unable to lean with him as smoothly as he usually does. 

There is nothing graceful about the way the bike stutters through the night and Hannibal silently fumes at the inconvenience of it all, hopes quietly, vainly, that the hospital they are headed to do not show an abundance of true crime shows. Hopes with a little more conviction that they look different enough to be unrecognizable. 

They do and they don’t. A nurse eyes them suspiciously as Will is examined by a doctor, asks Hannibal a few insinuate questions about the cause of his wound while dragging her gaze across the red stains splattered all over his face and clothes, the blood his shoes tracked in over the clean linoleum floors. Hannibal fills his voice with something mild and soft, something that tastes like shock on his tongue as he makes up a story about being mugged. Tries to look like a man who is scared and confused, even lets tears form in his eyes without spilling.

It is, all things considered, not that much of a reach as his little antics usually are.

He is rather surprised when the nurse doesn’t call the police. But she is young and mousy and obviously not reliant enough on her intuition yet. When Will’s laceration is properly examined and stitched up, Hannibal regretfully informs him that they have to leave, because they do. Will nods weakly and they slink out into the night, speeding along the highway looking for a motel where they might rest.

As Hannibal is driving, Will holds him so tight that he feels that tug of fury again, twisting and turning in his gut. A neon sign flashes in the distance and Hannibal has _never_ been more relieved to see a tacky motel sign in his life. He throws a stack of cash from the American’s stolen wallet onto the desk in the reception and takes the keys without saying a word, ushering Will into the room.

“I need to get the fuck out of these clothes,” Will’s slurs, cagey and almost angry, breathing hard to the point where Hannibal suspects he is about to be launched into a panic attack. He puts his hands on Will’s shoulders, attempting to physically ground him.

“Will,” Is all he says, a single, firm syllable. Will’s eyes find their footing, locking onto his in an automatic response. Hannibal gives him an approving look, rubs his thumb affectionately across a collar bone and peels his blood-stained clothes off of him. It isn’t the first time, not even the second or third time he performs this procedure on Will, but he feels unusually on edge, chest tingling with a sensation he can’t immediately place.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Will murmurs while stepping out of his jeans, toeing off his shoes. “I need a moment alone.” 

Hannibal nods once and sits down on the edge of one of the beds. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall he’s facing and finds that he looks much like he expected he would look. His face is streaked by red and underneath black leather, the pristine white of his shirt is bloodied to the point where it is hard to tell it was ever anything but red. Still, his face is a blank slate and his eyes are the dark depths of a still ocean.

It somehow displeases him. He doesn’t look the way he feels.

When Will steps out of the bathroom wrapped in a grimy towel, his shoulders are hunched and the corners of his mouth are turned down in a frown. Hannibal would guess that he looks exactly the way he feels.

“We didn’t take care of the body.” Will says weakly, eyes glossy and red-rimmed.

“Surely you know what they say about spilled milk.” Hannibal says, softly, itching to get out of his own filthy clothes and into the cleansing spray of a hot shower.

“What are we going to do?” Will’s voice is cracked, a hint of desperation making it waver, and Hannibal gets up from where he’s seated, taking off his jacket and starting to undress.

“You are going to rest.” He says, folding his ruined shirt out of habit. “I am going to take a shower, then we will sleep. Tomorrow we will keep going until we are back home.”

Will’s eyes glint with something defiant.

“Hannibal. I’m serious. This is serious. We’re only safe as long as people think we’re dead, if they find anything tying us to the scene-”

“Will,” Hannibal interrupts in a sharper tone of voice than he had intended, hand resting on the door knob to the bathroom. “However true that may be, there is nothing we can do at this point. Try to get some sleep, you need to rest.” 

As unexpected as the turn of events had been, the chances are slim for even the most skilled forensic team to piece together any evidence of the corpse belonging to them. There should be no discernable prints, nothing connecting the two of them to the scene. But it is concerning. Hannibal doesn’t like leaving a body in the open if he hasn’t meant to. 

When he is out of the shower and settles down next to Will in bed, he thinks the other man is asleep at first, but then - 

“I’m sorry.” Will’s voice is a sleepy, honeyed hum. “I compromised our safety, so much. I didn’t see him coming. Clumsy.”

“Safety is a luxury rarely afforded those who engage in this particular lifestyle, Will.” Hannibal says, quite truthfully. “The burden of responsibility is not only yours to bear.”

Will sighs, curling up closer to him. Hannibal only cards his fingers through wet strands of hair until tension melts from the younger man’s form and his breathing becomes heavy with sleep. Hannibal is not remotely tired, but he is used to going through the motions – only lets his eyes slide shut and waits.

 

*

 

Will dreams about water, dark depths swallowing him up. The darkness surrounding him is familiar yet threatening, and he’s unable to move, limbs tethered by invisible forces. He wants to swim to the surface, but he isn’t sure there even is one, and when he stops struggling, his mind is flooded by pure relief. Even as he can’t breathe, his lungs swelling with water until he is nothing but an empty shell, the drone of the current sucking him down to pick at bloated flesh. 

His cheeks are lined by hot tears as his eyes blink open and he isn’t sure whether to consider it a nightmare or not. He’s cradled against Hannibal’s warm chest, one of those strong arms a comforting weight around his waist.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Hannibal says, morning-rasp in his voice. It isn’t exactly apologetic, but not far off. “What were you dreaming about?”

“Nothing,” Will murmurs. “Water.”

There is a dull ache in his neck, and although he can feel it, it doesn’t bother him very much. He’s so terribly used to pain by now that it’s jarring. 

“Do you remember my decision?” He asks, nose buried in the greying hair on Hannibal’s chest. “I told you I made up my mind long ago. About us.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I had back then too, you know, when I pulled us over the cliff. I saw none of my past flash before my eyes. I saw future. Even in my dying moment, every moment after that too, though I tried not to.”

Hannibal is quiet, a pensive moment passing between them.

“If we allow symbolism to make sense of our actions, water represents death as well as rebirth. Perhaps you were hoping for the water to cleanse, for us to reemerge as something new.”

Will squeezes his eyes shut, eyes burning with new tears he’d rather not acknowledge.

“I wish we’d had time to take care of the body.” He blurts out, tears running down his face. “I would have taken his spleen. I would have eaten it raw.” His voice is strained and thick, still he offers a shaky laugh against Hannibal’s skin. “You’d just let me. Even though it’s getting dangerously close to an MO at this point.”

It truly is. Their kills often end up missing a spleen – Will tears them out without Hannibal’s surgical precision, violent and spiteful, often tearing through other vital organs in the process. Hannibal knows that he will remember the image of Will’s hands disappearing in torsos spread obscenely wide until his dying day.

“I’m afraid my fascination with you extends beyond my need for self-preservation,” Hannibal smiles, tilting Will’s head up with a finger hooked underneath his chin. His eyes are wide and bright with unhappiness and his cheeks are glistening wet. Hannibal presses his mouth against those trembling lips, kisses him with gentle tenderness despite snot and tears running down Will’s blotched face. Crying always made his scent stronger, like a dusty dirt road dampened by rain. 

“I wonder what else you’d just let me,” Will murmurs against his lips as he breaks away from the kiss. “Seems you indulge my every whim these days. I can’t tell if that’s a conscious strategy or if you’re lacking those little schemes of yours altogether.”

“I want what is freely given,” Hannibal says, attempting to be candid. “That being said, any emotional connection inevitably includes manipulation.”

“What if I left you?”

Hannibal is fairly certain that this sudden question was born out of mere curiosity, but something in his gut knots tight anyway.

“I think I could,” Will whispers before he has a chance to respond. “You’d let me. You wouldn’t kill me. Hell, you wouldn’t even _want_ to. I could walk out of here and you’d just let me, if only for the chance of getting me back.”

Hannibal doesn’t deny it, but he feels uneasy at the prospect of being laid bare like this without his permission.

“And if I left you, Will?”

The flicker behind Will’s eyes tells Hannibal he wasn’t expecting the question. 

“You wouldn’t,” He says, brow furrowing, then: “I’d kill you.”

“Why?”

 _I don’t want you unleashed and free to roam the earth as you see fit_ Will thinks to himself, but he doesn’t say it out loud, would never, ever say something like that to Hannibal’s face.

“I don’t want you to be with anyone else,” He says instead, softly, and it isn’t a lie at all. “And If you’d decide to leave me after everything we’ve been through, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing I could do to bring you back to me.” 

“But you could be persuaded?”

“I always come back to you, don’t I?” 

Will smiles, disguising his serious remark as something light-hearted. Hannibal brushes his hair out of his face and kisses him once more, opening his mouth with his tongue and savoring the warm, wet slide of lips. Will melts into the kiss and presses his body closer, still soft against Hannibal’s stiffening length. As the hard outline of Hannibal’s cock presses against his thigh, Will groans and reaches down to fondle the clothed hardness, slipping inside Hannibal’s briefs to wrap his hand around heated flesh. Hannibal captures his wrist in one hand.

“There is no obligation, Will,” He says, breathing only slightly labored. “You are injured, I didn’t presume to-“

“I want to,” Will interrupts, urgent. Then he softens his tone, and Hannibal can feel Will’s budding arousal rolling off of him like steam. “I need this, Hannibal. I want it and I need it. Please.”

“Because of last night,” Hannibal fills in, eyes fond and almost concerned. “There is time, Will. I am not going anywhere and neither are you. You needn’t rush things.”

Will says nothing, but the hand shoved down Hannibal’s underwear offers a slow stroke that makes Hannibal draw a shallow breath. The look in Will’s dark eyes suggests that he can’t be discouraged, and so Hannibal releases Will’s wrist and lies back again, closing his eyes as Will’s touch coaxes a soft grunt from his lips.

Will never really ventured to explore Hannibal’s form, always preferring to be swept away, to let things happen to him. But now he wants to savor, wants to feel and know every last inch of the man sprawled out on musty motel sheets next to him. Still moving his hand in slow, rhythmic strokes, Will buries his face in the junction between Hannibal’s neck and shoulder and inhales his scent, scatters little kisses and nips and nuzzles over his flushed skin before moving further down the length of his body. 

Hannibal smells light and airy, somehow impersonal – like an aspirin or a freshly laundered shirt. But when Will further explores the slopes and planes of his form, his sensory system is flooded with something earthy, something rich and almost pungent, hiding away in all places vulnerable: where his elbows bend, in the hollows of his armpits, between his thighs.

“As a former practitioner of medicine, I feel obliged to tell you that this is very ill-advised,” Hannibal sighs as Will pulls down his underwear and presses a kiss against the underside of his hard length. “However appreciated it may be.”

“As a _former practitioner of medicine_ , you’ll patch me up if I need it,” Will counters, desire surging through him as he drags his tongue along the length of his cock. It feels like he’s done this to Hannibal dozens of times before, even though this is the first time he gets this far. He isn’t surprised; he often feels so connected to Hannibal that their bodies blur, that he feels what Hannibal feels and could swear he remembers things only Hannibal could possibly recollect.

The last time he tried this, Will tried to give him what he personally likes when he happens to be on the receiving end. Now, he tries to imagine what Hannibal would like. Will is fairly certain Hannibal enjoys it when he’s pliant and yielding, all needy moaning and arms clinging around his neck – if only for the possibility of access. Knowing Hannibal, Will is convinced he would be equally enamored with the parts of him that are not the brittle, broken pieces of a shattered teacup, but the sharp edges on which one might be cut.

That is why he isn’t necessarily surprised to hear Hannibal groan, low, deep and guttural, as he laps along a thick vein on the underside of his cock before swirling his tongue around the head, probing the slit with his tongue and relishing the salty taste of his precome. He is, however, surprised to hear Hannibal _gasp_ , a breathy _ah_ pushed from his lungs as Will envelops his cock in the wet heat of his mouth. The skin around his wound feels taut and throbs with a pulse of its own, but hearing that noise escaping Hannibal’s half-opened mouth makes him double his efforts, hoping to hear it again.

“Will,” Hannibal breathes, hands clenching around thin air along his sides. Will sets a steady rhythm, bobbing his head up and down between his legs until his jaw aches and his own cock is hard and twitching with need. Guided by curiosity and genuine desire, Will gently, almost experimentally, nudges the other man’s legs apart. Hannibal immediately spreads them wider for him, says his name one more time as if that one, short syllable was a means of communication.

In a way, it is.

“I want you,” Will says, voice low and hoarse from sucking his cock. “All of you, Hannibal.”

“Yes.” Hannibal says with a slight intake of breath as Will’s finger circles his hole before breaching the tight rim of muscle. Will’s mouth closes over Hannibal’s cock again, sucking lazily while he stretches him, his first finger soon being joined by a second. Each time Will senses the slight hitching of Hannibal’s breath, he stills, not wanting the other man to come just yet.

When imagining this scenario, Hannibal was never quite sure how Will would navigate the situation. He is quite surprised to find that Will is exceptionally slow and gentle – not due to insecurity, merely attentiveness. Perhaps his empathy is the cause of his caution, because he keeps looking up at Hannibal’s face, eyes searching for evidence of discomfort. He even bothers to drag himself out of bed to fish a bottle of lubricant out of their bag, coating his fingers in copious amounts before starting to work him open again, tongue trailing languid lines along his cock, swollen lips rubbing tenderly against the length of it.

“I am ready,” Hannibal finally informs him, voice steadier than he imagined it would be. Will slowly withdraws his fingers and his mouth, slicking his cock with more lube before settling between his legs. As he starts pushing inside, both men close their eyes and draw a deep breath.

“Oh,” Will exhales shakily and rolls his hips slowly until he’s buried to the hilt in velvety softness, scorching hot and so tight he almost comes before even getting started. “You feel so good, Hannibal, fuck.”

“Move, please,” Hannibal implores and Will does, stretching him wide in slow, deep thrusts that has a muddled mixture of pain and pleasure surging through Hannibal, muscles knotting up with tension from the pressure below his waist. Hannibal searches for something he might recognize in the way Will’s large, warm hands grip his thighs, something that is solely _his_ in the man fucking him with a firm gentleness. When he draws a blank, he considers the possibility that Will had sex with his wife and other women like this. It pleases and disgruntles him at the same time, because Hannibal is a creature of vanity and the prospect is conflicting in its implications. 

As this realization hits him, he takes note of the way Will’s grasp is wavering in strength, tightening and loosening as he thrusts between his legs.

He is holding back. As is Hannibal would break from _this_.

“Will,” Hannibal rumbles, cradling his cheek and tilting his head up to look into his eyes. “You said you wanted all of me, and I said you can have it. Take it.”

Will blinks, the rhythmic snap of his hips halting. Hannibal once again suspects that Will’s empathy makes it hard for him to let go, because Will very much looks like a deer in headlights at his suggestion. No wonder Will gave himself up so completely the moment Hannibal first crawled between his legs and fucked him hard enough to bruise. Will wants to give over the reins, wants to unravel and _surrender_. And Hannibal had thought it a matter of cruelty as opposed to kindness, when it’s all about _control_.

“I want everything you can give me. No more, no less. No holding back,” Hannibal assures him, breath hot against Will’s lips. “Give it to me, Will.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, in one fluid movement, Will pulls out and flips Hannibal to his stomach, hoisting his hips up with strong hands – they are so _strong_ when Will doesn’t hold back – arranging Hannibal on his knees with his back curved and his chest flush against crumpled sheets. Hannibal groans as Will takes a firm hold of his hip with one hand and bullies his way inside him once more, his free hand reaching up to grab a fistful of his hair. When he tugs his head back, it’s so carelessly violent that the force of it hits him like a shock of electricity.

It is no less than brutal. Uncontrolled. Familiar. Hannibal would smile if his jaw didn’t hang helplessly slack from the onslaught of pain and pleasure. Instead of a smile twisting his face, a moan slithers out his throat, quivering and entirely unfamiliar, because this is a rare practice in loss of control for him too.

“Hannibal,” Will almost growls, fucking him so hard that Hannibal’s world is narrowed down to the aching bend of his spine and the burn between his thighs. It’s too painful to be entirely pleasurable, but pleasure is rarely the sole purpose of their intimacy and he truly doesn’t mind.

When Will slams into him a final time, the younger man releases a wavering groan that makes him sound like he’s dying – a noise Hannibal is truly intimately acquainted with by now – his body practically spasming as his orgasm rips from him. Once Will has recovered from the powerful waves of his release, he seeks Hannibal’s mouth with his own, kissing him from their awkward angle while a hand closes around Hannibal’s neglected cock. Will is still inside him, impossibly hard and unrelenting and _big_ , and his hips rock on their own volition while he wrings an orgasm from Hannibal.

When Hannibal comes, it’s a wounded, almost anguished thing, his eyes pinched tightly shut and moans spilling uncontrollably from his pouty lips, so prettily reddened by kissing and, Will assumes, Hannibal’s own teeth biting into their plush softness.

“Amazing,” Will sighs into the space between Hannibal’s shoulder blades, his hand covered in the other man’s come. He brings his hand to his mouth and laps at the salty stickiness, smiling faintly. Now that he’s no longer distracted by his own arousal, the pain in his neck is all the more noticeable.

“Your neck injury begs to differ,” Hannibal deadpans without even looking back at him to inspect the damage. Will smiles again.

“You asked for it, literally,” Will points out and the corners of Hannibal’s mouth turn up in a content and just a little bit smug smile.

“Yes,” He admits. “And I must admit I feel no natural inclination to apologize considering the outcome.”

 

*

 

As they return home and Will’s injury heals, itching and throbbing and aching at odd hours of the day, his mind is occupied with the memory of Hannibal, yielding and unrestrained beneath him, honest in his desire. Each time he nuzzles Hannibal’s neck from behind, pressing his half-hard length into the soft swell of his ass in a silent plea for another taste, the older man gives in to his demand. And each time Will fucks him, he’s oddly reminded of the first few weeks he knew Hannibal. Back when Will felt guilty about dragging him into what he thought was his world. Because Hannibal wore modest sweaters and plain jackets then, had mousy hair hair falling into gentle eyes – making him seem so unassuming and mild-mannered and normal that Will honestly felt like _he_ was corrupting _Hannibal._

All those night when he woke up alone, achingly hard and drenched in sweat, yearning for something to replace the vivid memories of his nightmares, he felt vaguely uneasy as the kindly _Dr. Lecter_ made his way into his fantasies. When he inevitably used the image of him for his made-up fantasy scenarios where he fucked him against his desk or in his own sorry excuse for a bed, he felt sharp stabs of guilt that lingered throughout their appointments. 

His current reality matches his past imagination to a degree that is almost uncanny, with the way Hannibal writhes and pants and flushes pink underneath him. Will finds that curious for reasons he can’t quite articulate. 

 

*

 

It isn’t that Hannibal wants to hurt Will. In fact, the urge to do so has been rare, although it has been an unfortunate side-effect to many of his endeavors. No, Hannibal does, truly, want to _help_ , admittedly to their mutual benefit. 

When he told Will he was no longer interested in manipulation, it had been true. When he told him emotional connections always involved a certain amount of manipulation, that had been true too. 

“I never really got that weird serial killer thing with collecting newspaper clippings,” Will mutters as he sees Hannibal flip through the true crime section of a magazine by their kitchen table back in Avignon. He doesn’t know French very well, but there’s a picture of them in there and it’s much too early in the morning for him to face those alarming speculations about their whereabouts, what truly happened the night they killed Dolarhyde and if any recent kills – be it in America or Europe – could be attributed to them.

“You know I don’t like seeing that shit around the house,” He grumbles, satisfied at the way Hannibal’s mouth twitches in disapproval at his choice of words. He pours himself a cup of coffee and flops down in the chair across from Hannibal. “I don’t get why you’re keeping tabs on the tabloids around here. Making a scrapbook or what?”

Hannibal puts the magazine down.

“I may as well ask you why you are so adamant on not reading them. Why not?”

Will stares dumbly. 

“They’re referring to us as murder husbands. There are all kinds of unsavory rumors about the nature of our relationship and what we gained from killing Dolarhyde. You of all people should find it- I don't know, distasteful?”

Hannibal says nothing, but there’s a slight hint of a challenge in his eyes. He can tell it upsets the other man.

”Don't you care that people are speculating about our respective psychosexual development, stating sexual dysfunction as a cause of our actions?” Will asks, incredulous. “Comparing us to the likes of Dahmer?”

”My reputation does not bother me,” Hannibal says simply. “But I do find it curious that it bothers you to this extent. I’m tempted to believe there are ties left for you to sever with people whose approval you seek.”

Will purses his lips.

”Don't start.” 

”I don’t suppose your colleagues are your main concern, seeing as your relationship to them was always fairly shallow,” Hannibal reasons, ignoring Will’s warning now that he has a foot wedged in the door. “Considering your characteristic lack of friends, Mrs. Graham seems the most likely reason for your distress.”

There’s nothing scornful in the smooth roll of Hannibal’s tongue as he takes his wife’s title in his mouth, but his eyes are narrowed into slits, black and shallow like a shark smelling blood. Before Will can answer, those animal eyes clear and Hannibal opens his mouth to speak again.

“Unless, of course, this concerns family of another sort.”

Will immediately raises a cautioning hand.

”You're going to talk about my dad. I don't want to talk about that.”

Hannibal enjoys figuring Will out slowly, like a puzzle – picking up and fitting pieces together one by one. The moment he laid eyes on him, he was able to draw a series of conclusion as with anyone else: instable introvert, neurotic, his withdrawn demeanor suggesting he'd been bullied as a child, his avoidant gaze, jittery movements and discomfort around authoritative men suggesting a variety of things, but most feasibly maltreatment by a father figure. 

It's delightfully pedestrian. 

Hannibal can easily imagine Graham Senior, the likely source of inspiration for Will’s scruffy exterior, his ill-fitting plaids and habit of downing a finger of whisky in one fluid motion before slumping down in his armchair to pour himself an additional two. Can easily imagine this two-bit drunkard’s clumsy attempts at fatherly care for a boy much too haunted, much too _special_ to thrive in the hands of a neglectful parent, fending for himself while inner demons gnawed at the eggshell constitution of his mind. 

And he can, all too easily, imagine Will as a boy – his door knob-knees, the downy hair on his nape. Wide, blue eyes mirroring terrors his young mind had yet to make sense of. Something stirs in his chest and he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, trying to determine a course of action. 

“Just allow me to sate my curiosity in one regard, Will,” He finally says. ”Do you imagine you will speak to your father again?”

”No,” Will's answer is quick and firm. ”No, I don't.”

”The prospect of your father’s disapproval is discouraging. Better off not knowing.” He suggests, pushing a little further. “But is there sentiment there, I wonder?”

Will’s brows knit together, mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to find the right words.

“Patricide is not an uncommon occurrence, historically,” Hannibal quickly asserts, attempting to steer the conversation in his desired direction. “Ancient sources reflect the tendency in mythological tales, in stories such as that of Oedipus. It even occurs in the bible. The act is often said to represent the restoration of the natural order, the old making way for the young.”

Will actually looks baffled now, eyes wide and unguarded.

“You want me to _kill_ my father?”

“Do _you_ want to?” Hannibal tilts his head. “I am always considerate of your agency, Will. I want you to cut yourself free of anything that might serve to restrain you. Either through symbolic or literal death.”

Will’s face twitches with conflicting emotions.

“No, you don’t,” He says, a note of defiance in his voice. “I’d have to rid myself of you, literally and symbolically. One of those options are viable–” Hannibal quirks an eyebrow at this, noting the way Will doesn’t need to specify which one he is referring to– “but ultimately doomed to be futile.” Will pauses. “I don’t think his literal death would serve that purpose. My father’s, I mean.” 

“You have internalized your father to the point of inescapability. Is that what you are saying?”

Will eyes him quietly for a moment.

“Although you have spoken rather contemptuously of psychoanalysis as a dead religion, wouldn’t you agree there’s an amount of truth to the idea that children internalize their parents to the point where they become their inner moral compass? Stored within the superego.”

Hannibal inclines his head.

“You should not let that deter you. It is just a matter of symbolic death and effectively ensuring it.”

Another moment of silence passes before Will’s eyes narrow dangerously. He is truly, at his core, a wild thing, wound-up and angry and ferocious, bred to endure hostile environments. Hannibal is fairly certain Will would snarl at him if he did not curb his impulses.

“You’ll forgive my suspicion at your sudden interest in my formative years,” Will sneers. “I thought we were past these mind games. Or do you intend to string me up again? Is that what this is?”

Hannibal gets up from where he’s seated. Will rises too, quickly, as if perceiving an imminent threat. Hannibal resists the urge to put his hands up, like one would when attempting to placate an animal roused into aggression.

“I told you, Will. I merely care for your agency.” Hannibal smiles, daring to place a tender hand on Will’s cheek. “I have so much faith in you. Don’t you have faith in me?”

Will doesn’t answer, but he closes his eyes and relaxes into his touch, lets Hannibal cradle his face in his hand. Hannibal truly doesn’t want to replace. He merely wants to remove, further free Will of his inhibitions, as he had told him quite frankly.

It isn’t only for Will’s sake. 

It isn’t only for Hannibal’s sake either.

“Tell me about your father, Will.” Hannibal tries to make his request sound like beseeching rather than demanding, keeping his touch chaste yet affectionate as his hand comes to rest at the back of Will’s neck. “When he made you feel good.”

Will sighs, clearly uneasy.

“That’s just _not_ the way I was affected by his absence, Hannibal. I feel no need to eroticize fatherhood, and although it may be common to find the authority it represents sexually appealing, I don’t.”

“This is not about that.” Hannibal assures him, curbing a smile – amused by Will’s rather lewd suggestion. “Trust me.”

Will keeps his gaze fixed on Hannibal’s shoulder, staring blankly. Then he sighs again, deflating.

“Like I’ve said before, I’m not sure what to tell you. I don’t remember him that well.” Will says slowly. A long moment of silence passes before he speaks again. “I, uh- I do remember the way he’d look at me. I could’ve sworn it was- it was almost _apologetic_ , although he never truly did anything to warrant an apology. Nothing in particular, anyway. There was just that continuous absence of care.” 

The way Will’s speech is slower than usual and filled with pauses that interrupt the flow of his sentences tells Hannibal he has never told anyone this before. The implications please him. 

“Go on.” He encourages, and Will looks away.

“It wasn’t always like that. When I was a kid, when mom was still alive, he was more involved. Took me fishing, called me _son_ , his _darlin’ boy_. Hugged me.” The way Will suddenly clips his sentences, as if attempting to remove the subject from the predicate, does not escape Hannibal. “And- I remember once when I’d gotten a nosebleed, I was no more than six, maybe seven. Mom wasn’t home, and I was crying, it seemed like there was so much blood. Daddy-“

(The word has been pressed up uncomfortably against the roof of Will's mouth since their conversation started, and once his tongue lets it slip, he freezes; blood clogging up his veins like cement. The word is all too familiar and all too strange at once, sets off a flair of nausea in the pit of his stomach. It almost makes him lose it a little bit, but then he reins it in, draws a deep breath.)

”I mean, my _dad_ cleaned me up, had me sit down and lean forward while he pinched my nose shut, and at first I- I _panicked_ because I couldn’t _breathe_ , but then he told me to breathe through my mouth. Said he used to get nosebleeds as a kid too, that it ain’t nothin’ to be scared of. He, um- hugged me when it stopped.” Will attempts to sigh again, but it’s more of a shaky release of breath. “Hugged me when I was older too, in- maybe high school, but it didn’t feel right. I was taller than he was at that point and I fit against him in all the wrong ways.”

Hannibal tilts his head, giving him a look of pensiveness rather than pity, because he knows that nothing shuts the other man down quite like compassion. Hearing this story, he isn’t quite as mystified by Will’s positive reaction to being choked in bed. Judging by Will’s refusal to deal with his conflicting feelings regarding this issue, he is confident that the thought never crossed Will’s mind.

Sexuality is truly peculiar. 

“You enjoyed the sense of protection.” He suggests. “Allowing yourself to be vulnerable, knowing you could be.”

“It felt good.” Will underlines the last word. “Safe.”

Hannibal does not point out that Will often makes himself smaller near him, that he often cowers when he is being held. That he is even doing it right now, his face level with Hannibal’s chest despite the not so prominent height difference between them. Hannibal closes the distance separating him from Will and wraps the other man up in a gentle embrace. He can feel something crumbling, something _shifting_ in Will, and briefly feels almost giddy at the prospect of picking apart Will’s defenses like this: outside of their bedroom, without the pretenses of sexuality. Not that this is completely lacking eroticism – Will’s breathing is a bit heavier than usual and he appears flushed, hot where Hannibal’s hand connects with the back of his neck.

“Darlin’ boy.” Hannibal rumbles experimentally into soft chocolate curls, and Will shudders, breath stuck in his throat. He shuffles and Hannibal expects him to break away, but he doesn’t, only lets himself be held. The corners of Hannibal’s mouth tweaks into a triumphant smile as he relishes this moment of temporary regression, so delightfully intimate that he can practically feel the invisible bond tying them together consolidating. 

 

*

 

And then.

Then, one day, it happens.

Half a finger print and strands of hair is found on that _fucking_ corpse they left behind, and what had previously been mere speculations become inarguable facts. In the span of a few hours, their faces are plastered all over the internet, glum mugshots accompanied by blaring headlines in bold block letters. Turning on the TV, the news station’s report on the gruesome discovery of the body near Paris, announcing to the French population that they’re not only alive but alive in their vicinity. 

Speculations about the body found at the side of the road turn into speculations about other victims. Murders that are not even theirs start to become attributed to them in the frantic attempts to find a pattern to their irregular and unpredictable kills.

It doesn’t matter then that they have entirely new wardrobes with entirely different clothes, that Will’s cheeks are clean-shaven with loose curls tickling the line of his jaw, that Hannibal is bearded with hair tied into a sleek bun. It doesn’t matter, because how could they possibly go unrecognized now that anyone and everyone glancing at the news knows their faces?

When the reality of this devastating truth sinks in, Will can’t move. Can’t speak, can hardly even breathe, knowing that if he’s snapped out of this trancelike state, he’ll spiral into complete hysterics because _they know_. They know, and soon they will find them, and everything will be over.

“This could either be chalked up to a lapse in judgement or a simple mistake,” Hannibal hums, his words filtered through the protective wads of cotton lining the inside of Will’s head. “Someone must have leaked this information to the media. The FBI would not purposefully announce this evidence to the world, because it’s impractical to them that we know what they know. It puts them at a disadvantage. We still have time.”

Hannibal touches his face with warm hands and Will registers cooling wetness on his cheeks. He had assumed the blurriness of his vision was due to his lack of wearing glasses.

“Don’t take anything with you. We are leaving right now.”

“L-leaving?” Will’s isn’t entirely in control of his own voice, hearing it distantly as if it belonged to someone else. “Where?”

“Where is not imperative. Moving swiftly is. Jack Crawford may be incompetent, but even he might successfully track us down if given enough time.” 

When Will does nothing but stare blankly in front of him, Hannibal smiles – a mild, pleasant smile that doesn’t truly mean anything, creasing the skin around his dark, empty eyes. The thought doesn’t cross Will’s mind often, but he thinks then that smoke and mirrors aside, Hannibal is truly _crazy_. Delusional, manipulative and completely out of his mind with delusions of grandeur hiding beneath all that superficial charm. Eerily callous in his calm as he reaches out, offering his hand for Will to take.

Will is deathly pale as he accepts it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left to go! Hopefully I’ll have time and motivation enough to write it, but you know how it is. Come say hi to me on tumblr, sometimes I like to draw these dorks too -> @beatricenius


	7. In Aeternum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Take me to him.”_
> 
> _“You know I won’t.”_
> 
> _Jack takes a step forward and Will instinctively steps back. Jack grabs his wrists, twisting him closer._
> 
> _“So help me God, Will, I'll call every single officer working this case to this location right now if you don’t meet me halfway.”_  
> 
> Will and Hannibal face the consequences of their mistake. Things get worse before they get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end of the story! This chapter truly fought me every single step of the way, which is why it has taken me some time to finish. But now that it's finally done, I hope you’ll enjoy it!

Jack is tired. 

No, not tired – exhausted. The bone-deep weariness that fosters frustration, prickling the skin at the back of his neck and making his insides itch. Enough to make his chest tingle with rage, but no longer potent enough to drive his knuckles into the wall. Jack has punched walls. Jack has punched a lot of walls, and now his wounds are left to fester.

The color of fatigue is a dim, dehydrated fucking piss yellow. The color of anger is red; just red. They’re the color of his nightmares, jerking him awake in the middle of the night, heart racing and sweat beading on his temples. His dreams carry Will Graham’s voice and Hannibal Lecter’s face, abstract yellows and reds that meld into a bright orange. 

Orange, for all its glaring luster, is an ambiguous color. It is, _was_ , also the color of Bella’s eyes in the sun setting over Florence.

Jack replays the look in Will’s eyes as he spoke Hannibal’s name over and over in his head as he tries to sort out what little evidence he has regarding their whereabouts. Softness glimmered there, like rays of sun on the surface of rippling water. Jack always thought that Will’s obsession with Hannibal was understandable, not even pathological. He is well-versed with the idiocrasies of revenge, and it made sense that Will would want to stay away and get involved at the same time, reluctant and eager in equal measures to get an opportunity to exact vengeance on Hannibal through Francis Dolarhyde. 

He doesn’t know what, exactly, happened when three years’ worth of dust was stirred. What it was that he couldn’t see before it settled.

Itching frustration. He doesn’t want to think about it, because the softness glimmering in Will’s eyes mean that he can only understand the news of their joint survival one way, and that doesn’t bear thinking about. In the end, he decides that he will give Will the benefit of a doubt. Will was his friend, after all. Wasn’t he? He was, and every possible defense mechanism his psyche is equipped with is working overtime to keep his guilt over what happened at bay.

When a series of camera phone pictures of two men looking suspiciously familiar are sent to Interpol, Jack doesn’t hesitate for a moment before he books a flight to where the pictures were taken. He flips through them one by one on his phone while waiting for the plane to take off, staring at the curly-haired man walking next to a slightly taller one on a crowded street. There's no touching, no smiling. Just maybe-Will leaning into maybe-Hannibal's space with the effortless ease that comes from sharing a close bond. 

Jack looks at his hands, as if to check whether his knuckles are still split open and bleeding. They aren’t, of course. The time for that has passed.

 

*

 

Night and day bleed into one other. Treetops and houses and plains blur with the roar of their motorcycle as it speeds down the endless stretch of road, slipping in and out of their field of vision at a pace so fast the images don’t quite register, as if they’re flipping through a picture book. There is no boat this time. Nothing but the motorcycle and anonymity their helmets provide. 

Will idly wonders whether their means of travel is known to anyone, but can’t imagine how it would be. It doesn’t matter either way, because they have no other options. 

They drive until they have to rest and then they drive some more, making their way through France and Slovenia, past the border of Croatia. On the west coast of Istria, they make a stop, because they have to. They’ve gotten no more than fitful slivers of sleep on roadsides and haven’t eaten in so long that hunger pangs have turned into light-headed weariness.

Hannibal hopes to be a face among many others in the tourist-infested city they temporarily reside in, while Will feels every lingering gaze on them like a yoke. Food turns to ash in his mouth and his vocal chords feel tangled. He has barely spoken a word to Hannibal since they left France, unable to find the voice to word the thoughts piling up at the back of his head. Hannibal is unnervingly calm and collected, but Will feels his own shoulders draw up toward his ears, bowstring-tight, and knows he must look every bit as tense as he feels.

”I don’t know how you stay so calm,” Will says with a stuttering sound that is supposed to be a laugh as they lie tangled on a stale bed in a dingy motel room, trying to get some rest. “I’m- I feel like I’m moving backwards, lapsing into something I should have moved past by now.”

”What is it?”

”Fear,” There’s tightness in Will’s throat that brings a slight tremor to his words. “The kind that leaves no room for anything else. I’m scared of what will happen to us.”

“We just need to find a place to make our own again. Away from scrutiny. We are the proverbial needle in a haystack, no one should be able to find us.”

“There’s nowhere for us to go. They know we’re alive and we’ll never be safe again. Our faces are everywhere. I don’t know if I can live like that, always looking over my shoulder.”

“What do you suggest then?”

“I don’t know.”

“Negotiating terms to give ourselves up?”

“I don’t know,” Will buries his face in Hannibal’s warm chest. They showered as soon as they stepped inside their room, but Hannibal stills smells like sweat and leather, as if the last few days have seeped into his skin. “What are our terms?”

Hannibal opens his mouth to speak, but Will shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter. Negotiation takes an upper hand. We’re not in a position to demand anything.” 

Hannibal says nothing, knowing it to be true. The silence makes Will antsy. There are many things he has yet to say to Hannibal, and every silence feels like a missed opportunity. If they had more time – 

Will doesn’t finish the thought, but he still knows, deep down, that they could have been better. Everything since his failed double suicide has been a mess, their relationship moving at the wrong pace, off-beat. If he compiles the days, weeks and months they have spent together, it stacks up to over a year. Almost a year and a half. All that time and the foundation of their relationship is just now starting to solidify.

“We never talked about your time in prison,” Will ventures. To fill the silence, and to make some amends. “I don’t imagine it was easy for you. Tell me about it.”

“The ability to adjust to anything is an innate human trait. I enjoy the excess of life, but I don’t require it. My memory palace is vast,” Hannibal purses his lips. “Alana offered to lend me her copy of _The Stranger_. I could never quite decide whether it was mockery or an attempt at comfort.”

“Probably both.”

“It wasn’t entirely unwelcome. I am quite taken with the idea of being sustained by memories. Camus suggested that even a day’s worth of memories would be enough to keep one entertained, if that was all one had.” 

Hannibal gives Will a fond look, seeking out his gaze with kind amber eyes. 

“You have given me so many memories to live off of, Will. More than I could have ever hoped for. Our shared rooms have expanded and I will see you at every turn, if separation was to become our only option.”

As he speaks, Hannibal runs his hand along the curve of Will’s back, hoping the drone of his voice and even strokes of his hand might bring him some comfort. He reminds Hannibal of the bunnies he and his sister used to have, curled up tense and small, breathing shallow and shivering as if cold or very, very frightened. 

Will’s knotted muscles loosen slowly by Hannibal’s hand, the pattern to his breathing becoming more regular.

“Have you followed the debate on the death penalty? In Maryland. In pretty much every other state. Here, too.” Will glances up at his face. “I have. You’re pretty much the sole reason many consider abolishment to be out of the question.”

Hannibal doesn’t stop stroking his back. “You worry they will want to see me dead now.”  


“I know they will want to see you dead now.”

“Entertaining such notions will only cause you unnecessary grief, Will. We can never be sure what fate has in store for us. Don’t think too far ahead.”

“Not thinking ahead may cause me a little more than grief. They might want to see me dead too,” Will sighs. “You’ve been driving all day. Get some sleep.”

Long after Hannibal’s eyes have slid closed and the soothing strokes of his hand has stopped, Will lies awake, listening to the slow, even beat of his heart. In its rhythm, he has come to find purpose and respite.

 

*

 

 _When we’re caught_ , Will says. Over and over again – not if, when. _When we’re caught, we need to have a plan. I can think of a million reasons it won’t work, but we have to try. When we’re caught, Hannibal_ – 

Will’s voice is thin and breathless from lack of sleep and his eyes dart restlessly around the room as he talks Hannibal through a myriad of possible scenarios with possible outcomes and possible ways to use them to their advantage. The hand that taps a nervous rhythm on top of the bedspread is trembling, those bunny-shivers that reminds Hannibal of home in the most primal sense, and it makes him wants to pick it up and sooth it in his own hands, warm and steady from hours of undisturbed sleep. 

(It isn’t that Hannibal wanted Will to lie awake worrying while he slept soundly by his side. He simply is not used to entertaining the idea of being caught. In fact, Hannibal is entirely unable to remember a time where he was riddled with such a fear. Will’s distress makes him wonder if he should be more concerned about their predicament, but Will so often lives in possibilities while Hannibal, for all intents and purposes, exists in the present. He can’t muster the concern creasing the skin around Will’s tense mouth and he frankly doesn’t wish to either.)

Once the outline of a plan has begun to form, Hannibal picks up his cold, shivering hand and assures him he will make arrangements. As soon as he has a disposable phone, he will call Chiyoh. The hand in his grasp slowly stops trembling and Will’s frown turns into a look of tentative relief. Hannibal pulls him close.

“I suppose you will finally have your pound of flesh,” He says, smirking into the matted curls at Will’s crown. “Should those inept pencil-pushers at the bureau catch up with us.” 

“Uh-huh,” Will wriggles around to face him, smiling a little. He seems much more at ease. Calmer, now that they can cling to the possibility of a plan. Taken with his easy smile, Hannibal kisses him tenderly, attempting to pour his affections into the slow strokes of his tongue, the warmth of his breath shared between their lips. A moan slips from Will’s hot, wet mouth and Hannibal feels him hardening against his sleep-warm thigh as he rubs against him with lazy thrusts of his hips.

Hannibal presses a hand to Will’s chest and crawls on top of him. Will makes a humming sound that turns into a gasp as Hannibal lets his teeth graze the pink scar tissue on Will’s neck from his stab wound. While Will seems to like the stories Hannibal’s scars tell, Hannibal quietly resents the scars on Will that aren’t his making. He takes comfort in the ritual of latching onto them, reclaiming the numbed skin with teeth and tongue. As his teeth sink into the sensitive skin surrounding the scar, Will squirms, making a soft, high-pitched sound. It awakens some predatory instinct Hannibal no longer cares to conceal. The first kick of adrenaline roused by resisting prey. 

Hannibal takes a firm hold of Will’s wrists and pin them above his head, making the younger man’s head tilt back as his back arcs off the bed, exposing his throat further to Hannibal’s nipping kisses.

“All about the loss of control, is it?” Hannibal’s voice is soft as he murmurs his question into the base of Will’s neck. “That’s why you keep allowing me this.”

“Allowance implies a lack of mutual benefit. We’re supposed to be equal, Hannibal. I don’t allow you anything.”

Hannibal turns the words over in his head and ponders the possibility of acquiescence where either one of them is concerned.

“What do you do then?”

“I evoke responses. Sometimes deliberately. More often not, I think.”

“Is this deliberate?” He squeezes around Will’s wrists for emphasis. “Am I taking a bait?”

“I don’t know. I influence you and you influence me,” Will smiles. “I think our needs have always overlapped to some extent, but they’re becoming more acclimatized. We’re more in tune with each other now.”

There was a time Will thought he could read Hannibal in touches and kisses. He has rid himself of that delusion since. There’s a fair amount of freedom to that too, because God knows he has spent an inordinate amount of time pondering the confused tangle of their relationship over the years.

Hannibal presses a few lazy kisses to the rosy skin on his throat. “There are ways to explore them further. These overlapping needs. I can restrain you with something other than my hands.”

“You want to tie me up?” Will’s eyes widen with disbelief, teeth glimmering white against the pink of his lips as he grins. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”

Hannibal sits up to undress. “Take off your clothes.”

Once their t-shirts and underwear are piled up on the floor beneath the bed, Hannibal draws Will’s hands to his lips to place fleeting kisses on each weatherworn knuckle, taking in their unique scent. There’s a whisper of old memories, motor oil and wet fur, gun-powder and fish. He can smell himself there too, in bleach and scented oils and coppery blood. 

“Lie down on your stomach,” He instructs, giving Will’s knuckles a final kiss. Will offers a sly smile before he does as he’s told, settling down on the mattress, flat on his stomach with his arms along his sides. Hannibal can’t help but run his palm along the length of his body, following the line of his spine to the rise of his ass. Will draws a shivering breath, his skin pricked by gooseflesh in the wake of Hannibal’s touch. When Hannibal’s hands close around his wrists, pulling them up above his head and pinning them there, his breathing quickens ever so slightly.

“Imagine something physically holding them in place,” Hannibal says, letting go of his wrists. Will’s eyes are shining with anticipation, his breaths sieved through slightly parted lips. His pale skin is flushed with arousal and his face is soft where it used to be hard the first few times they attempted physical closeness. 

Hannibal’s heart gives an unbidden clench and he moves to kneel between Will’s parted legs. He grabs his hips to hitch him up on his knees, and Will draws a sharp breath at the sudden movement. Still, he holds his hands over his head as he was told and lets Hannibal arrange him on his knees, chest pressed against the warm bed.

“Just so,” Hannibal sighs, content, the hint of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “I would be free to do whatever I please with you like this, wouldn’t I?”

Will snorts. “I have functioning legs.”

Hannibal takes a firm hold of his thighs, eyes glimmering with delight as Will expels a startled little sound. “I have capable hands.”

Will wriggles a little, bringing a sway to his hips and making the muscles in his thighs shift. Hannibal scoffs and squeezes around his thighs to keep him still. The effortless strength in his hands makes a shiver run along Will’s curved spine and he bites back a moan.

“I want my hands tied like this,” He says with a demanding edge to his voice. “You can use anything, I don’t care.”

A a week sooner, Hannibal might have used one of his ties – something soft and beautiful against Will’s skin. Shut away in this Croatian motel room with little more than the clothes on his back, scratchy fiber rope and cable ties from their duffel bag are his only options. Ultimately, he decides to settle for cable ties, and secures Will’s hands above his head with an unseemly strip of plastic nylon.

“You’re lovely like this,” Hannibal says, truthfully, letting his voice drop to a deep purr. He grabs Will’s thighs once more and forces his legs further apart, spreading his cheeks with firm hands. Will gasps, feeling heat rise in his face. “You enjoy being spread out for me, don’t you?”

“You enjoy having me spread out before you.”

“I do,” Hannibal admits. “I will tie you with something better next time. This might be a bit uncomfortable. Though I think it is appropriate for now. It fits the scenery.”

Will laughs then. “My comfort be damned as long as it fits the scenery?”

“You know that is not what I meant.”

“You meant that there is always a pattern of visual appeal to be found.”

Hannibal smiles. “A pattern of visual aesthetic, not appeal. The restraints I chose for you are as cheap and unpleasant as this room is. It’s unbefitting of your radiance.”

Will feels a kiss being pressed to his tailbone. Then Hannibal’s lips slowly make their way further down until Will suddenly, unexpectedly, feels Hannibal’s breath in warm puffs over his hole. He flinches, instinctively trying to inch away, only to find there’s no give in Hannibal’s grasp. 

“Hannibal, wait,” He protests, blushing furiously. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why not? Remember that this is a practice in loss of control. I intend to make it enjoyable for the both of us.”

Then Will feels the wet heat of Hannibal’s tongue dragging slowly over his hole. A wavering moan climbs up his throat and he can’t help but squirm, his already throbbing cock twitching with renewed interest as Hannibal continues lapping at the clench of tense muscle, tongue made broad. The sensation is overwhelming and he feels distinctively embarrassed, in part due to his inexperience and in part due to the nature of the act itself. Will has always been open-minded, but his unprejudiced disposition has generally been reserved for others. He never imagined he would find himself in any situation like this. 

Hannibal makes a low growling sound, a vocal acknowledgement of how much he enjoys Will’s narrow hips in his grasp and the shuddering little noises his lips and tongue and teeth pull out of him. Every time he lets his tongue breach him, Will writhes and tugs at his restraints, choking on needy moans that makes Hannibal think of coddled little things. 

He wants more of it; wants shameless arousal parting Will’s lips and blowing his pupils wide, wants mortification painting his cheeks ruddy, wants another glimpse of that inexperience that so easily translates to innocence, if Hannibal didn’t know better. After wetting two fingers in his mouth, he starts circling them around his hole, teasing the rim with the barest amount of pressure, alternating the strokes of his fingers with flicks of his tongue. Will’s body is rigid and tense with the need for release, but his hole is slick and loose, reddened from his mouth and hands when he pulls away.

“Please,” Will’s groans, rolling his hips as much as Hannibal’s grip allows. “Stop teasing. Are you going to-” His sentence is interrupted by his own moan as Hannibal’s mouth closes over his hole again, licking and sucking until his toes curl. “ _Christ_ , Hannibal, just fuck me already.”

Hannibal licks a smile into his skin and lets some spit dribble into his hand, giving himself a few wet strokes while burying his tongue inside Will, making the younger man practically sob with frustration. Then, he finally sits back and takes a firm hold of Will’s hips to reel him into his lap. Will’s knees settle on either side of his thighs and his back is pulled flush against Hannibal’s chest as Hannibal wraps an arm around him.

“For someone whose hands are quite literally tied, you give a lot of cheek,” Hannibal chastens, lining his cock up to his hole and letting the tip breach him just slightly, pulling out again only to repeat the action. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes, yes, Hannibal, _oh_ -“

Will hisses a curse a Hannibal pushes the thick, blunt head of his cock past his rim. Giving him mere seconds to adjust, Hannibal starts to slowly push further inside, burying himself in tight, slick heat. Will lets his head drop heavy on Hannibal’s shoulder and groans, aching with every inch spreading him open. Although his thighs are already straining and his center of balance is slightly put off by his tied hands, he starts rolling his hips, desperate to feel Hannibal stretching him open, his cock loosening him more than his tongue or fingers could.

“Perfect,” Hannibal purrs, meeting Will’s movements with slow, indulgent thrusts, finding a joint rhythm for them. His hands roam over his body, stroking his chest, his stomach, his thighs, petting his sweaty curls while his lips brush against his neck in butterfly kisses, faint clips of wings on his skin. 

Before Will can make sense of where Hannibal’s touches are taking him, the thick pads of his fingertips pinch vice-like around his nose. 

With the immediacy of failing instincts, Will forgets how to breathe through his mouth. Panic starts clawing at his insides and his jaws snap shut, trapping his breath in his lungs. He thrashes uselessly in Hannibal’s arms, making a choked sound in his throat that is pure animal fear. The cable ties around his wrists refuse to budge, only cutting into his skin as he struggles to free himself, and his lungs quickly start burning with lack of air.

Another set of fingers lock around his jaw then, forcefully wrenching his mouth open, and a metallic, blood-like phantom taste permeates his tongue. There is a flicker of memories against the blank slate of his mind, and Will recognizes his father among them. The inflection in his gravelly voice. The rare comfort of his hands, warmed by sun and labor, draped in tanned, leathery skin. 

Will’s frayed nerves settle like dust and air fills his lungs as he draws a deep breath. His body feels weak in Hannibal’s firm grasp, the rush of adrenaline subsiding and leaving him wracked with fine tremors. 

“That’s it,” Hannibal murmurs, voice lowered to a soothing lull. He carefully lets go of his nose to wrap both arms around him, fitting them close together. “I’ve got you. There is nothing for you to be scared of, Will.”

Will’s head is swimming. Despite the memory of family, the only word on the tip of his tongue is Hannibal’s name. His hand is warm where it rests on Will’s chest, fingers splayed above the erratic beat of his heart, and Will isn’t even moving anymore; his slack body rocked into motion by Hannibal’s thrusts alone. There is trust in giving himself over like this. There’s something else there too, but even in the privacy of his own mind, Will hesitates to give it a name. For all their shared moments of fondness, he has always shied away from actually saying the words out loud, hindered by – 

Lingering doubts, maybe. This great, beastly thing he feels for Hannibal does not always feel like love as he has previously known it. And at the same time, it’s familiar and identifiable, in moments like this. In many other moments as well, if he only lets himself tread those unexplored paths.

His mouth forms effortlessly around the words when he finally decides to speak them. 

“I love you.”

Hannibal stills, tensing slightly – the muscles in his forearms shifting visibly. Will can hear a little noise right next to his ear, something like a whine that ends on a low-pitched wail, and the arms slung around him tighten their hold. Hannibal’s hands clench and unclench, fluttering almost anxiously over his skin, and Will realizes that Hannibal wants something he is unable to will into action, as if Will struck him dumb with three simple syllables. 

His hands finally come to rest around his hips and Hannibal eases him off his lap, maneuvering him onto his back with his arms raised over his head. Will feels his face warm slightly. He hadn’t meant for it to be awkward, for those words to be blurted out during sex with his arms immobilized by goddamn cable ties. He tries to make the best out of the situation and treads his arms over Hannibal’s head, his tied hands locking them together in an embrace, and Hannibal strokes his sweat-matted curls out of his forehead.

“You never said that to me before,” Hannibal finally says. “I doubted whether it was meant for my ears. Had I seen your face, I would have known if you were lost to something other than me.” There’s a beat of hesitation before Hannibal cradles Will’s cheek in his hand, thumb slotting into the delve between his jaw and ear. “I wish I could have seen you when you said it.”

Will’s face aches with a grin he didn’t know was splitting his lips wide. “I’ll say it again if you put your dick back inside me.”

Hannibal snorts, but his mouth parts on a wolfish smile. He shuffles into position and spreads Will’s legs wider to slide back inside him, hissing softly at the sensation. Will wants to live in this moment forever and move past it at the same time, into the possibilities his words unlocked. 

“Say it,” Hannibal demands as he starts fucking him with slow rolls of his hips. “Spoiled boy.”

Will chuckles, a low reverberation that turns into a groan. “I love you, Hannibal. You knew that already. So did I.”

Hannibal’s eyes flutter closed at his words and Will wraps his legs around his waist, pulling them even closer together. As Hannibal picks up the pace, driving into him harder and faster, he makes soft, adoring little noises, skidding over vowels that form words Will either can’t make out or understand. When his hand wraps around Will’s cock, it takes no more than a few strokes before the pleasure coiled in his gut unwinds, and he comes shuddering and gasping with his head tipped back. The way Will tightens around Hannibal pulls him over the edge as well, and he spills deep inside him, groaning softly with his eyes pinched shut.

As Hannibal deflates on top of him, Will thinks of how familiar a tableau this is. How many times he’s been fucked in unfamiliar beds with Hannibal warm and heavy between his legs, his cock thick inside him even after semen has begun to dry in thin flakes on the inside of his thighs. Once Hannibal has caught his breath, he carefully untangles them to reach for a small knife tucked away in their bag. Then he cuts Will out of his restraints and rubs his wrists, trying to coax some circulation back into them.

“I love you too,” Hannibal kisses his wrists, letting his lips linger where red has bled into the bursts of purple. “My darling boy.”

A lopsided grin stretches over Will’s lips. “I don’t know why I tell you anything. You’re using my father to manipulate me.” He closes his eyes. “You may call me that if you like. It’s wasted on my dad anyway, I haven’t been his darling boy since elementary school and I doubt he’d want to revisit the nickname now.”

Hannibal lies down next to him, still running his fingers over his bruised wrists. “What were you like?”

“In elementary school?”

“When you were his darling boy.”

“Difficult to remember accurately how one used to be. I suppose I was- softer. More defenseless, as most children are. Not building forts fast enough,” He scoffs. “I was very well-mannered when I was a kid though. You would have approved.”

“Was your father strict?”

“He aspired to be. I could tell, and I tried to be what he wanted. I think it led him to believe that rigorous discipline could be good for me.”

“He influenced you and you influenced him,” Hannibal clarifies. “Do you try to be what I want?”

“I have to try?” Will raises an eyebrow, smiling again. “There’s no telling where influence begins and ends. I’m comfortable with what I am, or what I am becoming. What we are becoming together. I try to leave it at that.”

He snuggles into Hannibal’s arms, closing his eyes against weariness.

“I don’t mind the term of endearment. You’re nothing but Hannibal to me though. I can’t think of anything else to call you. But that’s fine, I don’t think your name means to me what it means to anyone else.”

 

*

 

When Will first sees him, he thinks his mind might be playing a trick on him.

He had gone out to get water. Maybe something to eat, some breakfast to sustain them before before taking off. They had gotten two days of rest at the motel and decided it was in their best interest to start looking for a new location, something a little more permanent, maybe, depending on how far they could drive. 

He had just gone out to get water. But once he rounded a corner, he was confronted with the bulk of Jack Crawford’s solid form, a dark silhouette against the impending dawn. 

The moment Jack lays eyes on him, Will almost stumbles. Thoughts still fogged by sleep, he wonders if he is seeing things, though he hasn’t for years now. He ends up frozen in place as Jack approaches him, all unwavering steps and calm gaze. Jack was never afraid of him. Mostly just afraid for him. Finally, they stand before each other, and Will doesn’t know what to say. Jack watches him quietly for a moment, his eyes mapping out the differences in his face. Will is sure there are many, aside from the new scars and marks scattered over his skin.

“Where is he?” Jack asks him. 

“Where’s the others?” Will asks in return.

“There are no others. Yet. Are you-“ Jack stops himself, trying to find the right words. There are no right words. “Are you ok, Will?”

Right then and there, under Jack’s heavy scrutiny, Will feels ashamed. Because Jack’s voice is filled with such palpable concern that Will understands the true meaning behind the question. _Is he hurting you_ , is what Jack is trying to ask, _are you here willingly_ , and Will can tell that Jack wishes the answer to be _yes_ and then _no_ , the implications of it be damned. 

“I’m fine,” His words are exhaled like a sigh. “I’m good, Jack.”

Jack’s expression is impossible for him to read. But he can tell when relief is replaced by understanding, drawing his brow and setting his mouth in a stern line. 

“Take me to him.”

“You know I won’t.”

Jack takes a step forward and Will instinctively steps back. Jack grabs his wrists, twisting him closer.

“So help me God, Will, I’ll call every single officer working this case to this location right now if you don’t meet me halfway,” Nothing in Jack’s steely eyes or iron grip is truly menacing, just firm and somehow caring in a way that makes Will’s chest ache. “Take me to Hannibal. I will find you again eventually, the both of you, or someone else will. Let’s just make this easier for all three of us.” As an afterthought, he adds, “People know where I am.” 

Will realizes that Jack meant to imply that killing him would be useless. He is startled to find that he would not have hesitated to do so, if he didn’t agree with what his words insinuated. Finding he has nothing to say, Will just nods. Then they start walking.

 

*

 

“Why did you come alone? I would have expected more fanfare.”

Hannibal is, as always, horrifyingly civil. Even when dressed in stained cotton and leather, with a salt and pepper beard and sleep-mussed hair falling over his shoulders. Even when faced with a man he has tried to kill and who has tried to kill him in return at several points in his life. There is, however, a predatory gait, muscles rippling under Hannibal’s t-shirt as he closes the door behind them, following Jack’s movements with darkened eyes. 

“Others are coming,” Jack grumbles. “I felt like there were things to settle, off record. This is as much for your sake as mine.”

“I highly doubt that,” Hannibal retorts, seeming almost amused. “Go on, then.”

Jack lets his gaze flit between them, saying nothing for a long time. Will imagines that he spent a lot of time thinking about this moment, carefully considering what he would say. Such rehearsed speeches rarely turn out the way one originally planned. In the end, Jack settles for honest inquiry.

“For how long?”

Will sighs. Then he shrugs and shakes his head at the same time. “What does it matter now? I chose this.” 

“What exactly did you choose?” Jack challenges, wanting to hear it laid out straight, neat rows of offenses. “Tell me what it is that you chose, Will.”

“I chose Hannibal,” Will says quietly. “To some extent, I chose myself.”

Jack sighs, deeply. There’s an age of weariness in that sigh alone.

“They will be here any moment. I hope your choice was worth it, Will.”

 

*

 

Will always imagined that there would be an end, one way or another. He expected it the same way he expected the peaceful dawn settling over their cottage to turn into bright daylight, the pink sky making way for yellow rays of morning sun. Inevitable. Necessary. When the end to this chapter of their lives comes, he had almost forgotten that it would, and the impact is all the more painful for it. But then he remembers that it’s supposed to happen, and his breathing slows. Dawn moves into day, something ends only for something else to begin.

He has no way of telling what Hannibal feels. He has often thought to himself that Hannibal was a force of nature, and such are not to be contained or controlled. The prospect makes him uneasy, so he tries, instead, to think of Hannibal in the music-echoing halls of his memory palace, content in the excesses of life.

(What Hannibal does feel is nothing, not even numbness; it is just like any other day except when he realizes that it isn't. But Will is backlit by the headlights of a police car, tinting his curls with bright light, creating a pale white halo around his head.

He makes the conscious decision to see this as a good sign.)

 

*

 

Once Will and Hannibal have been taken back to the states, to Maryland and the BSHCI, they are hauled into the endless back-and-forth of interrogation and the mindless routine thrust upon them in custody. Will had expected Hannibal’s absence to be an altogether painful experience, but he hadn’t anticipated the way he’d speak his thoughts aloud, forgetting he was alone in his cell, the way sleep would refuse to come without the weight of Hannibal’s arm curled around him. The way lethargy would creep into the hollows where Will used to keep him, stored away like a treasure.

When his body gives out under the strain of exhaustion, he dreams about Hannibal. Slivers of memories and fantasies, chopped up and stitched together like mismatched body parts, telling a fragmented story of gruesome domesticity. 

He never wants to wake up. Dreads facing the reality wherein his worst fears were confirmed mere hours into his confinement. He had expected the possibility – inevitability – of that too, but the resentment he feels is no less frustrating.

“Dr. Lecter tells us it was self-defense,” An officer whose name he keeps forgetting informs him. Her hands are clasped on the interrogation table in front of her and there is a steely glint to her kind, blue eyes. 

“It was,” Will confirms, tilting his head to reveal the pink scar tissue on the side of his neck. “He pushed past us when we were waiting behind him in line at the gas station. He called us fucking faggots. Or goddamn faggots, maybe. When we pulled up to the same rest stop, he stabbed me in the neck. Hannibal acted out of necessity to protect me, and himself.”

The officer frowns.

“Mr. Graham, the victim was found with substantial head trauma, a sternal fracture, several fractured ribs, punctured lungs and lacerations on both his kidneys and his liver,” She purses her lips. “He had to be identified through his dental records.”

“Vigorous self-defense, then,” Will amends, curbing an uptick of his lips. “I’m telling you the truth. We both are. If the knife was still there when the cops found him, my blood should be on it.”

The officer sighs. There is something strangely unafraid in the way she treats him like an everyday nuisance, as if he’s nothing but a normal workday hassle. He knows his dishevelment must play into some homicidal lunatic trope, his hair a greasy tangle of matted curls against pasty skin, the dark hollows beneath his eyes making his glare all the more prominent. He has eaten even less than he has slept. Hannibal would be appalled if he knew, but that is the problem – he doesn’t, because they haven’t spoken in weeks. 

Blue eyes stare him down as the officer leans forward, jaws set in determination.

“Here’s what I think, Mr. Graham. Mr. Lowe may have done what you said. He may have been a homophobe, for all we know. But I don’t believe for a second that the two of you were innocent victims of a hate crime, considering the body count Dr. Lecter seems to have racked up since Dolarhyde.”

“We’re telling you the truth,” Will repeats. “It was self-defense. You’ve got nothing to support the idea that Hannibal is responsible for any other kills.” 

The officer barks a short laugh then. “Mr. Graham, we know that Dr. Lecter is guilty of more crimes than we are currently able to prove. There is a pattern to the Avignon murder wave. Extravagance, brutality elevated to elegance. Dr. Lecter’s usual MO of missing organs. Missing spleens consistent even in kills that don’t match the profile.”

Will falls quiet and the officer tilts her head, giving him an assessing look.

“The one thing I can’t quite figure out is your role in this. You told us you chose to be romantically involved with Dr. Lecter, yet you attempted double suicide the night Dolarhyde was killed,” She paused. “The medical journal conducted after your arrival states you had ligature marks on your wrists and ankles. Bruising on your neck, your inner thighs. Dr. Lecter’s skin under your fingernails.”

There it is – 

His worst fear.

Will feels the first stir of rage in the pit of his stomach. He knew, the moment he was strip searched and the forensic team shot the officers in the room a telling look, that what he had been dreading since the start was already set into motion. It was confirmed when his lawyer was informed and a rape kit was suggested. Will had objected vehemently to the idea, but due to the implications that may serve his case in trial, a compromise was made over his head. He was sent to a medical exam, a fairly standard procedure that was turned into an opportunity to gather evidence for sexual abuse.

(A standard medical exam wouldn’t have cameras documenting every kiss turned bruise over the pale expanse of his skin. A standard medical exam wouldn’t be used to string together a narrative where Hannibal was cast as the villain to Will’s victim, turning Will into a mindless puppet whose loyalty was ensured with all kinds of salacious acts of violence.

Not even when Will wanted it the most did these roles fit them.)

“What is your point?” Will near-growls, knowing exactly what her point is.

“My point is that there is no concrete evidence of your involvement in Dr. Lecter’s murders. Yet, anyway. If I’m honest, you seem to have been a victim yourself, which makes me wonder why you’re covering for him. Did he threaten you?” She pauses. Will seethes. “Dr. Lecter is never going to walk free, no matter the outcome of this trial. He still has a sentence left to serve on top of whatever he’ll get for escaping and killing Dolarhyde. He can’t harm you.”

Will would laugh at the sheer stupidity of that statement if he wasn’t so thoroughly insulted by every word coming out of what’s-her-name’s mouth. “I have said everything there is to say.”

“Are you in love?” She asks then, pushing further. “You may think this is about love, Mr. Graham, but the evidence is laid out right in front of you in broad daylight. Maybe it would do you good to have a proper look at them.”

“I have said everything there is to say,” Will repeats, barely able to contain his rage, whiting out his vision. “I want to speak to my lawyer.”

The officer looks infuriatingly compassionate when she stands. “Fine,” She lets her gaze linger on the zigzag of scar tissue on his neck. “You know, I’m no doctor, but that wound seems like it may have been critical. If Dr. Lecter, with all his medical knowledge and skill, truly cared about you, wouldn’t he have taken you to a hospital straight away instead of wasting time on Mr. Lowe?”

She leaves the room and Will is left alone, hands trembling so bad his chains rattle against the steel surface of the table he’s cuffed to.

 

*

 

What’s even more infuriating – Will knows that he, at first glance, would have drawn the same conclusion as everyone else working the case. It’s a comfortable assumption, safe, especially as he used to be one of them. Almost. The thought of an educated man affiliated with law enforcement, who by all rights should have his moral compass pointing squarely north, changing the course of his life so drastically likely doesn’t sit well with them, and he understands. 

Will always understands.

“There wasn’t-“ Will struggles to find the right words. He tries not to sound so desperately as if he’s trying to convince himself, keeping his tone calm as he assures his lawyer, “It was consensual. There was mutual affection and reciprocity.”

His lawyer is a pragmatic woman. Reluctantly inclined to sympathy, which he can sometimes see in the way her gaze angles away from his face during conversation, as if she is struck by something she won’t give voice to.

“Right,” She mutters to her hands, gaze flicking to the fading bruises on his wrists. He resists the urge to tug at his sleeves. “With all due respect, Mr. Graham, none of this was found on the good doctor. This is a good line of defense we’re presented with. View it as an opportunity. A possibility.”

“No, no,” Will says, shaking his head as frustration wells up inside him. “I’m not- I wasn’t _raped_ , for God’s sake.”

“Mr. Graham,” Her voice is gentle, yet firm. He thinks, for a moment, that there is something manipulative about her black, mouse-like eyes peering kindly at him from under pale lashes. “A case as high-profile as this is inevitably going to be full of sensationalism. Our best option is to roll with it, rather than oppose it.”

“I don’t see how this is relevant to the case. Evidence supports our claims of self-defense. Why would the particulars of our relationship even matter?”

“You don’t see how that would matter?” The woman taps her fingers on the table. “I’ll enlighten you then, Mr. Graham. You and Dr. Lecter went suspiciously missing, presumed dead, after the brutal murder of Francis Dolarhyde. Then, we find your prints on a body near Paris, just as a series of murders have surfaced in the south of France. Coincidence? Of course not, and everybody knows it.” 

She pauses, giving him an almost corrective look.

“What do you think is the most beneficial course of action for you – announcing to the world that you were a willing participant in your relationship with Dr. Lecter, and thereby claiming equal responsibility, or letting them think your mental state rendered you vulnerable to Dr. Lecter’s manipulation?” She draws a deep breath. “This case is not about whatever private matters transpired between you, but we have enough to support the idea that you were forced into an abusive relationship for the sake of survival. That may lessen the burden of responsibility for you, should additional evidence surface.”

Will tugs at his handcuffs, using them as leverage to lean closer to the woman across from him. She flinches, but doesn’t break eye-contact.

“What evidence do you have to support the idea that our relationship was abusive?”

“Aside from the signs of sexual and physical abuse, it seems you had no financial resources of your own. You were badly hurt after the fall and relied on his medical skills for your survival.”

Her voice softens as she speaks and Will thinks to himself that he’d like to curl a hand in her tidy bun, press her face down to the table and tell her in explicit detail exactly what he’s done, without remorse or insistence, let her know what it feels like to run your tongue over tacky, dried-up blood between your teeth, how how a knife is like a limb is like _intimacy_ when you press against and into the yielding flesh of a warm body and feel the stutter of a heart align with the stutter of breath.

“It is understandable, Mr. Graham,” She says, tentatively, as if she isn’t sure whether she’s supposed to say it. “Your work repeatedly put you in high-stress situations. Rehabilitation is possible. You will likely be deemed criminally insane and from there on, without Hannibal, you will begin to recover. It will be difficult, but possible.”

“I have to speak to Hannibal,” Will says, white-faced at her suggestion. She shakes her head, beginning to protest, but then he slams a fist on the table, barely holding his fear-fueled anger in check. “Call Jack Crawford. Tell him I have to speak to Hannibal. Now.”

Roping Jack into it was a last-ditch effort, but to his credit, it takes no more than a phone call to make it happen. Will isn’t sure whether he is compelled by guilt, pity or genuine care, but he is told to wait where he is and then Hannibal is escorted through the door, dignified and imposing as ever, even as he is forcibly seated in the chair across from him and cuffed to the table. The guards leave, and although the cameras in the corner remind him that it’s merely an illusion of privacy, Will feels a calm he hasn’t felt in weeks settle over him.

“You haven’t eaten,” Hannibal observes, eyes fond and concerned. “Or slept.”

“Have you?”

“We have to be strong, don’t we? However little appetite we may have. Or how stubbornly sleep might evade us.”

There is a subtle hint at questioning in the depths of Hannibal’s dark eyes. Will thinks about Croatia. The chafe of Hannibal’s beard against his lips, the creak of worn mattresses in filthy motel rooms. He thinks about what the future might have in store for them. If they had more time.

He taps his ear, deliberately, in an agreed-upon signal that reminds him of silly childhood games. Only it isn’t. It’s as far removed from a game of cops and robbers it could possibly be.

“I thought you did not want to live looking over your shoulder,” Hannibal says after a long moment of silence. “What made you change your mind?”

There’s no pause of hesitation when Will offers his reply. “Not seeing you, and then seeing you again.”

Hannibal smiles. Will feels it like a kiss or a tender word or a hand through his hair, intimate and soothing.

 

*

 

The first day of their trial, Will walks into the courtroom on trembling legs, feeling the flutter of nerves in his stomach and something dangerously close to excitement and anticipation. His step is deliberately slow and he stubbornly keeps his gaze straight-ahead, trying not to let his gaze gravitate toward where Hannibal should already be seated. 

He can only hope that what they planned will turn out to work. Everything surrounding judicial matters are potentially unpredictable, handled differently depending on the people on call and the interpretation of the situation at hand. But Will has nowhere else to pin his hopes, so he just keeps walking, the soles of his shoes clacking loudly against the floor. Jack brought him those along with a black suit the day before. It’s just like the one he wore last time. On top of the forced ensemble is a pair of non-prescription glasses that make him feel like more of a fraud than he truly is. 

He will never again wear a black suit, he thinks, if he survives this.

Stealing a quick glance over at the back of Hannibal’s head, Will sees the crisp collar of a white shirt. Then he realizes that Hannibal’s hair isn’t tied back or falling over his shoulders and something like nostalgia or déjà vu courses through him with the image of Hannibal once again clean-shaven and dressed in a three-piece suit. He understands with a sense of immense relief that Hannibal must only be cuffed to the table, not strapped down and wrestled into a straitjacket with a mask over his face. They had agreed to appear cooperative to lessen the risk of being excessively restrained in court, and that, at least, seems to have worked out.

Will braces himself, taking charge of his frazzled nerves. Then, the moment he finally brushes past Hannibal’s table, he hears the rattle of handcuffs dropping empty and clatter of chairs knocking over before the familiar weight of Hannibal’s hands settle on his shoulders and blinding pain sears along the side of his skull. A gut-wrenching scream filters through the bright agony whiting out his vision and he distantly realizes that it’s his own. Forcing movement into his limbs, he lunges for Hannibal, managing to sink his teeth into the plump flesh of his cheek before he and Hannibal are yanked apart, hauled past the stunned crowd scurrying across their seats like bugs.

Will cries out again as he is taken back outside and forced down on his knees. Hands hold him firmly in place as someone straps his face into a mask that feels all too familiar, managing just barely not to brush it past the ear Hannibal tore between his teeth. Something is pressed to the injured side of his head, prompting another onslaught of pain. The sirens of an ambulance is heard in the distance, but he can’t see Hannibal, and grows increasingly worried.

The pain is a throbbing, searing ache once the ambulance comes to a stop and he’s strapped down to a cot. He looks around, eyes searching frantically for Hannibal. He doesn’t see him at first and fears that what they planned had, indeed, gone horribly awry. But then, he spots him; sirens flickering blue and red across his bloodied face and white muzzle as he’s strapped down to another cot and taken into the ambulance. He feels himself being moved as well and closes his eyes, praying to whatever’s listening that the rest will work out to their advantage as well. 

As Will catches a glimpse of the paramedic settling in the driver’s seat of the ambulance, worry drains out of him in an instant. Looking over at Hannibal, he sees his expression mirrored as they both realize what everybody else at the time failed to notice. In the flurry of uniformed people, there was only one paramedic. And when that paramedic slammed the door to the driver’s seat shut and drove off, the ambulance took off in the opposite direction to the closest hospital.

 

* 

 

Will lightly traces his finger over the stitches across Hannibal’s mangled cheek. The skin is rosy and hot, and though Hannibal doesn’t react, he knows that even the light pressure he is applying must set off a tingling ache in his face.

“That is going to scar up so fucking bad,” He remarks. The taste of blood is still fresh in his mouth, making him idly chase the taste with his tongue. 

“Facial disfigurements are best avoided. But we didn’t have much choice, did we?” He reaches out to pet the side of Will’s face, still wrapped up in gauze. Will leans into it, although it’s painful.

“You go rest, Hannibal. I’ll be up for a little longer.”

“Join me soon,” Hannibal lets his hand linger for a second before retiring to the bedroom they are meant to stay the night in. He shuffles a little bit, his body made slack by the pain medication he has taken. Will wouldn’t mind a finger of whisky before bed, but he has swallowed down the same amount of pills and figures they won’t mix well with alcohol.

Instead, he makes his way out of the porch. They’re out in the middle of nowhere, in Chiyoh’s home, where she drove them after they had been wheeled into the ambulance. A place not unlike Will’s old farmhouse. He always felt a kinship with her and her way of life, and her house is somehow testament to their similarities. 

As soon as Will steps outside, he sees her solemn profile against the darkening sky. She is sitting in a wooden chair, looking out at the vast plains surrounding them. He sits down in the chair next to hers, following her gaze.

“Are you coming with us tomorrow?” He asks.

She doesn’t look away from her view. “I imagine I would have trouble finding a place for myself in your domesticity. I am content here.”

Truth is, Will pities her a little bit for settling down so close to where Hannibal used to live, as if she merely sits around waiting for her old childhood friend to require her assistance. He could be wrong, of course. He knows nothing about her life here. It’s just a hunch and a little voice at the back of his head that tells him Hannibal holds the key to her freedom.

“We will make a place for you. You’re Hannibal’s family.”

“It’s hard to reconcile the little boy with the grown man. This Hannibal is, in essence, yours,” She turns to look at him. “You have trickled into him, expanded his river. Streams meeting and joining together, carving away at rock and landscape.”

“We all influence each other. He can be ours, in time. We can be each other’s.”

“I am content here,” Chiyoh insists. Will falls silent and decides not to push for happy. There is no trace of regret in her eyes when they take off the next day. 

 

*

 

A piece of white paper, folded into a small, cubistic crane, stands out against the grey sky. Next to the little table on which it resides, a man with greying hair falling in his eyes is sitting curled up in a wicker chair, amusing himself with the craft of origami. The heavy Tokyo air is thickened with oncoming spring rain, but the patio to the little house is graced with a slanted roof, and a stack of blankets and pillows are piled up in the second chair, offering warmth and comfort.

Hannibal considers simple things as he folds the thin square of paper in his hands with the skillful idleness that comes from experience. He thinks about dinner and laundry. Whether Will took an umbrella with him when he went to shop for groceries. He considers things of greater import too, because some days, he must air out old rooms in his memory palace. The sound of city traffic bleeds into his thoughts and he hums softly to himself, pleased to have the silence in his head disrupted.

A second crane finds its place next to the first one, and as Hannibal sets it down on the table, he catches a glimpse of unruly curls tied into a messy bun. Hannibal smiles as the man approaches him and finds his smile returned.

“Here I toil away, dragging myself out of our perfectly comfortable bed for groceries, and you sit around folding little birds,” Will sets his bags down, casting a pointed look toward Hannibal’s origami. “There was only one crane when I left. Did it require company?”

Hannibal nods, solemn. “I would not deny it a mate. Unlike you, I take pity on the wretched and the lonely.”

Will grins. “I was gone for fifteen minutes, tops.” 

“Twenty.”

Will rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest when Hannibal drags him down on his lap, placing a fleeting kiss on his temple. Even after ten years’ time, Hannibal is in a state of delighted disbelief that Will is a permanent fixture in his life. He strokes an escaped curl behind his good ear, admiring the way subtle streaks of grey have begun finding their way into the soft locks of hair. He likes it, just as he likes the faint lines around Will’s eyes and mouth that remind him of how much time has passed.

“My little crane,” Hannibal says. “I’m reluctant to part from you always.”

“Needy,” Will complains and smiles crooked in spite of himself, kissing Hannibal’s lips; still soft and impossibly full, dewy and rosy like a garden. “You’re looking at me like you did all those years ago, when you thought I had been killed by Tobias Budge.”

“Describe it, please.” 

“Relief,” Will strokes his cheek with his thumb. “Your eyes all soft, as if you were falling in love. Or just realizing that you had.”

“You could be right. Time seems to loop, as I have said before. Perhaps I am supposed to always reach the same realization regarding you.”

Will smiles again. Then his brow furrows ever so slightly in concern. “You seem sad.”

“Not sad. How could I be, now that you are here?” Hannibal presses another kiss to his temple, lips parting on a content smile. “My darling boy.”

“I’m not a boy. I was hardly even a boy when you started calling me that.”

“But you are my darling.”

“If you aren’t sad, what are you?” Will has catalogued every subtle shift in Hannibal’s demeanor over the years. His sadness tastes like earth and carries the scent of pine. Will can feel it as if it were burrowing into his own bones.

“Closer to something sublime. Melancholy, perhaps. I find it’s a state of mind easy to access these days. A woeful pleasure of sorts.”

“Vent your spleen then, Hannibal,” Will nudges his ribs, grinning. “Or let me rid you of it. Can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed my mind before. Your moods can be pretty trying.” 

Hannibal shoots him a glare, but smiles all the same. “Melancholy is an indulgence. I don’t wish to be rid of it,” He pauses. “Did I ever tell you that Chiyoh and I helped folding cranes for a little girl who had cancer? She thought that she might be cured if she reached 1000 cranes.”  


“Were you feeling nostalgic?”  


“One thought led to another,” Hannibal admits. “When my first love rejected me, she suggested there was nothing left of me to love. The man she knew had been lost to cold-blooded cruelty. It comes to mind every so often, with the taste of betrayal,” Hannibal looks away. “She knew me as a young man. I have far surpassed the cruelties I was capable of then.”

There are many things Will could say to that. He could say that he never knew Hannibal as anything else but the man Lady Murasaki spurned. That he has never known Hannibal to be intentionally cruel, by the standards established by his personal beliefs. That he finds mutual understanding in their shared language of spilled blood and broken bones. Instead, he simply says – 

“I love you, Hannibal. Not the idea of you, not the unattainable ideal. Just you, as you are,” 

On days like these, Will is happy that they ended up settling down here. Hannibal may have grown up in France, but he breathed Japan. Will is comforted by the notion of having lived with Hannibal in the two places of his formative years, making him reconsider their influence. This time around, he isn’t alone.

As heavy drops of rain beat out an uneven rhythm against the roof above their heads, Will and Hannibal hold each other. Hannibal closes the doors of his mind palace against the draft and anchors himself in the present, tilting his head to nuzzle Will’s deformed ear.

“I love you too, Will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, kudos and comments are as always very much appreciated. More of my Hannigram stuff can be found on my [tumblr](http://beatricenius.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> "Ça suffit." - "That is enough."  
> "Je ne tolérerai aucun de désobéissance. Comprends?" - "I won't tolerate the slightest disobedience. Is that understood?"  
> "Enculeur, lopaille" - Homophobic slurs.  
> "Vous n'êtes pas de vrais hommes." - "You are not real men."


End file.
